No Trespassing
by Metroid13
Summary: Third installment in the Flight is Right series, now taking place on the back end of the first half of the second season. Old adversaries rise again in unexpected ways. On hiatus, possibly ended. On second thought, we'll see what happens.
1. World Record

**No Trespassing**

Author's Note: This is a continuation of _Flight is Right_ and its sequel, _Away_. In order to understand some basic things about the characters, attitudes, and happenings that go on in this, I'd advise you read those two stories before moving on to this one. And to the people who have: welcome back.

This is a sequel merely in the sense that it chronologically follows the events of the last two; it isn't that intimately tied and takes place somewhere in the bizarro hellscape that is the timeline of season two, which puts it about two or three months after _Away. _Maybe.

In the rare instance that a FOX attorney reads this: This is a work of fiction and is divorced from the actual product it is derived from. I make no money off of it, and the intellectual property is not mine.

Getting back to the timeline issue: this definitely takes place after "Self Made Man."

Michael Oxferod will be returning in this.

I think that about covers the confusions and technicalities of all this, so let's get right into it.

----------

Chapter One: World Record

He was running. Again.

In a way, he really wasn't quite surprised. What would getting an attitude do? What would cutting his hair off do? What would fucking a girl do? All it did, all any of it did, was construct new barriers which were as easily broken as the previous ones. In the end, it all turned out the same.

Trivialities. Distractions. He was evading the point. He'd been there, _right there_ at the point of no return, at the moment he knew he should have dived headfirst into the swirling whirlpool of destiny. But no. He watched. He waited. Everything turned out fine. Everything worked itself out. He'd lost the opportunity.

Now he pouted. He whined. He made mistakes, horrible mistakes. A bunch of cops die because you want the holiday suite. Just piddling, right? Drops in the bucket? Not as if _you_ killed them, after all.

But it _is_ your fault.

Was it recoverable? Could it be found again, that opportunity to become Him?

Would he have the strength to dive when it came? If it came.

Things were different now. You couldn't dodge that realization, no matter how much you dodged everything else. The actions were the same. The motivations were what had changed.

He was running, yes, but he wasn't fleeing. He was approaching. Searching? Or did he know?

It was all black. He couldn't see an inch ahead of him, yet his body was perfectly illuminated against the darkness. He felt no fatigue as he ran. That felt appropriate. That felt good. He didn't want to lose energy prematurely. Yet when he stopped running, all he could think about was how best to avoid what he was after.

You know, in a way, things were actually still the same. If you can't flee one way, you flee another. Perhaps a bullet to the head, done by yours truly. Perhaps idle, wistful desires for it all to... melt away. A dream. Or... you escape. You find distractions.

He suddenly wanted to stop running.

He didn't even want to go in the other direction, whatever it was. Things were so black here, in this place, he couldn't be sure of what was left, what was right, what was forward, what was back. What he wanted was to stop altogether. Freeze.

Do nothing. Live a thousand years in this place, and age no longer. What the future held was the biggest trial of all.

And similarly, the past was no easy crucible to confront.

Present was what he wanted. He wanted to go out, to lay in bed for hours on end, to eat something made lovingly and not out of mere necessity, to kiss out of sheer joy and not starving _need. _He wanted to live the way he wanted.

He willed his legs to stop, and they refused. Like an automaton, he kept going. Perhaps his legs were smarter than the rest of him, but at the moment? He didn't care. He shouted. Yelled. Screamed. Cried. Pleaded. They refused every cajolement, every treaty.

Because in truth, there was no stopping. He had to either face forward, look up, _pay attention,_ or die and become useless.

Everyone else was chipping in while he rescued his drunk girlfriend from a party with a couple of douchebags. Everyone else was chipping in while he went to Mexico.

He needed to be more pragmatic than that, and at the moment, that was the scariest thing in the world. Needed something to shake him.

So unfair.

He screamed tragedy, and his legs called him coward. He kept running, helpless.

--------------

Most nightmares got John up in a rip-roaring hurry, and usually he had no qualms about letting everyone in a five-mile vicinity know about it, too. Luckily, mom and Derek were easily accustomed to night terrors, and at worst Cameron would just saunter in, ask if everything was alright, and then she'd be off. All it took was a yelp of terror erupting from dreamland, some last minute _vision_ or thought that'd send John metaphorically running. It was always loud. Sometimes he thought his dreams were the worst, because he almost _never_ heard Sarah... doing anything while she slept.

Maybe she was just better about it than he was.

But anyway, this time wasn't like that at all. This time, things were much quieter. Johns eyes opened very slowly, as if he were being gently eased out of the nightmare, not just... y'know, _ejected_ from it.

All the other feelings were there. The anxiousness. A feeling of ants in the pants. His armpits getting wet and cold. Some lingering vision from the nightmare being carried on into consciousness, like an imprint. Unlike the other times, though, he did nothing.

This wasn't the same sort of raw "holy shit what was that?" feeling he usually got. It was more metaphysical. More nagging, really, than frightening. Sorta like watching a suspense flick as opposed to a straight up horror movie. It was definitely a bad feeling, though. Not _terrifying, _right? Yet more potent than any metallic monsters appearing in his dreams could ever hope to be.

The star lit ceiling twinkled cheerfully at him. All was utter silence, like a suburban street just after a snowfall.

John grumbled and pushed himself up further against the back of the bed, staring at the door now, at the rest of his kiddie-themed room.

Okay. So what was it this time?

Details were typically forthcoming. _I saw a Terminator. It shot me. I died. _Or, more horrifically, someone _else_ died. Sarah, usually. As much as he fucking _hated_ her sometimes, the thought of her being gone one day was too much to describe. Too much tothink about, even.

And on the flip side, sometimes he got betrayed in his dreams. By Cameron, usually. She was an easy target, admittedly. She'd already tried to kill him once, so why not? The truly frightening instances were the ones he didn't expect. One time he saw Derek pointing a murky gun at his head and... pulling the trigger. Now _that_ was freaky.

But this time? The dream was like fog, there one day, maybe one_ hour_, and gone the next. All he could remember was that he'd been running towards something, and he wanted to stop.

That was it. Not exactly your cinema style nightmare, but it was the metaphorical ones that were the most disquieting to him.

The last time he'd dreamed about shit like this, he ran away from home, got innumerable people killed, almost got killed himself, and had another boy kiss him, and _then_ ended up kissing the robot.

So yeah, _these_ were the dreams he hated most. He was beginning to crazily wonder if he didn't have some sort of Cassandra complex, some kind of... pre-recognition?

Heh. In a way... he did. He knew exactly what the future held for him. He was John Connor, the leader of the human race against the machine intelligence Skynet in a world ravaged by the flames of nuclear armageddon. The big ol' important guy who knew _shit all_ about how he was supposed to become important in the first place.

That was probably what this was about. The last dream was him running away from it. This was him running toward it, while wanting to stop.

Wonderful. At least he was getting better at interpreting this shit. And the next set of dreams would be him running while not knowing how to get there, right?

Well, it was a red herring, anyhow. All bullshit. He didn't _want_ to stop. He fucking killed a guy. You can't go back from that. You can't stop after something like that happens. All he wanted to do was...

Slow down. Breathe. Not let everything get so _heavy. _Life goes on, y'know? Life _would_ go on, whether he liked it or not. All he had to do was go through the motions, be there, along with the ride.

No, see, _that's_ a bad thought to have. In fact, this whole entire _thought PROCESS _was a bad thing to have. He was self-analyzing too much, that was never good. That was very bad. He should just stop. You had a dream. Great. Everyone gets those, not like you're special for having it. Not like it means anything important. There's enough important shit going on now, you idiot. Stop it. Stop it and focus.

God, he was in such _denial_ already. It was a fucking world record.

------------

For all of John's self-assurances, it was spectacularly useless in getting him to go back to sleep. He laid there in bed, squirming a little, letting nebulous, stupid thoughts overrun him. Anything goes when you're like that. He'd feel sure of himself one minute and existential the next. Stupid dream.

It was this... all of this three dot shit, the lack of _leads_, all of the bullshit that had been recently happening. Cromartie was either a fucking zombie somewhere or in the completely _wrong_ hands. People kept dying. Derek was getting more aloof, Cameron was getting freakier, and mom was...

He didn't even want to _start_ thinking about Sarah. Riley was his only fucking port in the storm, and they had the gall to criticize him for trying to live a little with her. Shit was bad enough without them breathing down his neck.

Wanderlust started to kick in a little. Maybe moving around would clear his head. He got up out of bed, put on some jeans, and went out the door.

The hall was pitch black, but that wasn't so bad. John knew this place like the back of his hand already. To his left were the stairs and therefore the rest of the house. To the right was the fancy little balcony door, and therefore the outside world. John stared off to the left, scratching the peach fuzz on his chin a little. Home is where your heart is. And in your heart there can be a lot of shit you'd rather not confront. It was no contest. John ducked back into his room, slipped into his jacket, and started off towards the right, already feeling the cool breeze hitting him from underneath the door.

Some shoes would probably be good, but what the heck. He was just going for a walk, after all. He grabbed the door handle and pulled the thing open; slowly and carefully, as he usually did. The thing creaked like no one's business, and he didn't want to be caught up late.

A month or two ago, Sarah wouldn't have cared if he was up all night. Well, she _would_, but not that much, y'know? Now she was becoming...

She was getting frightened.

John moved past the door and let it close behind him. He beheld a perfectly dark night, interrupted only occasionally by street lamps. Good. He didn't want to see anything. He wanted to mellow out, only feel shit, not...

Goddamnit. She was getting frightened _for him. _He was slipping through her fingers and she knew it. Probably thought he was acting like an irresponsible brat, but he knew that was bullshit, so why should he care? What was the harm in seeing a fucking girl? Sometimes he felt as if he was getting strangled by Sarah, by her fear.

John sighed, searching blindly for the little deck chair that was up here. He had a pretty good view of the street from here, despite the darkness. May as well... people watch, or some shit. It was a bad situation. Hell, it was a _horrible_ situation. Sarah didn't want to let John go, which only made him react in...

He hesitated to say "stupid ways" but there was no other good word for it, was there?

Yeah. Stupid ways. Like running off to Mexico and...

John hissed and shut his eyes tightly, feeling a spike of pain electrify his head and run along his body, making him sweat a little. That whole excursion had been nothing but trouble. He winked at Riley, made stupid, suave remarks, and a day later a bunch of Mexican cops were dead. This wasn't some drunken, spring break-esque misadventure. It was... life and death.

Mostly death.

With all the shit happening recently with the three dots, he'd never gotten a chance to...

Think about all that. Sarah claimed blame for sparing that kid at the bowling alley, but John chose to run off in the first place. And Riley forgot to reset the security system, which got the house robbed to begin with. So when you go down the pipe far enough, you find John at the end of it.

And a bunch of dead bodies.

The teenager tapped his bare foot against the concrete. It was ice cold by now. Killing a person is one thing. Getting _many_ people killed is a whole different story. It was, in fact, a story he was really fucking familiar with. People died, people _would_ die constantly because of him. That was...

How could you _live_ with yourself?

You detach yourself. And John couldn't do that anymore. Sometimes, when he had a quiet moment, he saw... faces floating up at him. Faces he knew, but wasn't familiar with. FBI agents. Those Mexican cops. Kyle, even. Every death was an elephant in the room, and at this point there were a whole lot of fucking elephants. It was getting...

So what then? How do you deal with it?

He didn't know. It was weird. He was too accustomed to seeing himself as the most important figure in the room, and to suddenly put a value on somebody else felt crazy and uncharted, like he had to worry about _everything_ instead of just himself now. He felt like screaming all of a sudden; it was a stupid, instinctual feeling. Wouldn't solve anything. _Would_ probably make him feel better. He dipped his head a little until it touched the railing, and he shivered as he settled there.

In the end, there was a lot of shit piling up. For everybody. He had to release all the emotions bubbling up inside of him somehow, and Riley was a good, if not... perfectly sane way of doing that. As long as he kept it simple. No more vacations to Mexico, for example...

John giggled at the thought. It was a manic, crazy sort of noise. He felt like he was about to start crying, actually. Or scream. Or hurl himself off the balcony and end this fucking mockery of an existence he led.

He never got the chance to do anything, though, because a figure appeared underneath a street light up ahead.

He pulled himself back up and watched the figure closely, his eyes focusing like binoculars on it. In a way, this was what he was looking for. A distraction among other distractions. Something he could use to dispel every thought from his mind.

It was just a small, indistinct shape at first. All he could make out was color. Purple. A purple jacket. Even before he noticed the shapely form and plodding, robotic strides he figured the person was a woman for the color alone. Then; yeah, the hair, the emotionless face, and the way she walked. All very clear indicators that the "person" was Cameron Phillips. His bodyguard. A beautiful sociopath with fake skin and a combat-hardened, shiny metal interior. A Terminator.

John pulled his head up a tad more as she approached. Was she holding something? He really couldn't tell from here, and he oddly hoped that it was at least something important. Because if it was something like a pocket book, or... god, even garbage or shit like that...

Well. The thing was this: Cameron was getting even more... not _frightening,_ although she _was_ scary, but just... creepy. That was the word. Sticking her toes out and wiggling them in the open wind, complaining about birds in the attic, offering to cook complex meals, shit like that. The stuff John had privately wanted to see in her ever since he realized she was a robot were slowly being realized. She was becoming... not more _human_ per se, but less robotic, definitely. It was hard to explain.

Under any other circumstances he would have been jumping for joy. A few days before Sarkissian tried to kill them all, John was getting more and more certain that... as retarded and screwed up as it might sound... he was getting more certain that they could like each other. _Like like. _Like _like, _ right? It was stupid, anyway. Almost a week after they kissed she tried to shoot at him.

And the problem was, it was becoming more obvious to John that she wasn't being more human because she was _learning,_ but because her chip was still screwed up from the explosion. It was frustrating, to say the least. If she could go off her programing like this, she could go off _completely_ and either kill everything in sight or just shut down. She was a walking time bomb.

That was the pragmatic side of him talking. The lover boy part of him, stupid shit it was, was fawning over Riley now. Cameron had her goddamned chance, and it was just gone now. All there was to it.

The Terminator caught sight of John and extended her right hand; waving. The tiny bag (there was a logo on it) remained in her left, and John mechanically returned the greeting. The gears in his head were working overtime now. She obviously hadn't just picked that bag up somewhere around the house. She went out and got it. Which meant she _left_ the area. Left _him. _

It wasn't the act so much as the psychology that bothered him.

Cameron reached the edge of the lawn and made a bee-line for the balcony stairs. John absently turned and looked at the door, wondering what the chances were of him evading a conversation successfully. Not that great. She'd just follow him, anyway. He made a tiny little sighing noise in his throat and turned his head up to look at the stars. It was impossible to see any, though, what with all the lights.

Loud, clacking footfalls on the steps. She could enter a room as quietly as the grim reaper, but everything about robots was pretty much modular, wasn't it? She wanted him to know she was coming.

His left foot twitched slightly; at least it wasn't asleep anymore.

"Hi."

John winced and looked over to Cameron as she crested the stairs, _Dunkin' Donuts_ bag in hand. What the fuck?

"Hey," he said. He pointedly looked at the bag. "I didn't realize robots went out for donut breaks." He smiled, like it was a joke. Like she could appreciate a joke.

Cameron looked down at the bag, as if she'd forgotten it was there. "_Cybernetic organism_. And we don't. It's for someone else."

John decided not to question it; yet. He reached his hand out. "Lemme see?"

"There's only one left."

"Lemme see." It could be a bomb, or something. Or _anything other than a goddamned donut, _if the past was any indication.

God, he hoped that was true.

Cameron relinquished the bag, letting John grab it. He immediately opened the thing, tearing the sides a little with an irritating _riiip_, and peeked inside.

A vanilla donut with rainbow sprinkles sat innocently within, surrounded by crumbs and a few napkins. Gigantic words on the inside screamed **THANK YOU. **John closed the bag again and thrust it back at Cameron: "Someone else?"

"Someone else," Cameron said, accepting the bag. _Not you_ was the implication, and Sarah basically swore off sweets unless it was necessary to keep up appearances. And Derek? Please.

"Who?"

"A woman at the library." Cameron reached into the bag and took out the donut; she offered it to him. "This will go bad soon. Do you want it?"

John grabbed it and flung it over the side. Cameron watched its departure with something resembling bemusement.

"Why were you at the library?" John asked. He blinked, tilting his head suddenly. "Wait, isn't it closed by now?"

"I bribe the night manager with donuts," Cameron said, and she looked out onto the grass where John had flung the pastry.

John chuckled. "Wow, that's... clever, I guess. Why were you there and not, y'know, here, though? Like you're... supposed to be."

Cameron shrugged. "Cromartie has been disabled. There's no further threat to your life until it can be confirmed again. I've decided to spend these nights reading."

John opened his mouth; then closed it. Damn. That actually made sense, which made it even more irritating.

Cameron looked up at the stars, mimicking John, and she smiled while he wasn't looking.

"Well, still. You're supposed to be patrolling. In case they try again."

She looked back at him, and their eyes met for the first time in the conversation. John hated that now, whereas a few months ago he would have gotten all sappy. Weird how things change, huh? Cameron looked sharper now, less... blunt, really. There was something more subtle about her "personality," and everyone had noticed. It made John feel less secure in talking to her. "You don't have to worry, John. I'll be there when it happens."

"Real fuckin' assuring," John blurted. He felt hungry. Why'd he throw the donut away? _When it happens. _

Cameron shifted gears; "I can learn more by reading. It's a useful application of my time, at night."

John caught the hint right away. "... And spending time with a girl I like is a useless application of _my_ time, right?"

The Terminator gave him the barest of nods, looking a tad pleased with his quickness there. "She's more trouble than she's worth."

"Oh, fuck you," John said. His foot was tapping of its own intelligence now, separated from his mind. "I'm sick of everyone complaining about her. I mean, what's so bad about me socializing a little? What kind of leader am I gonna be if I can't relate to anyone on a personal level?"

"It's not your personality that drives people to fight for you."

John blinked, and said nothing.

"It's the fact that you're the best chance they have at living," Cameron finished.

He shook his head. "And how does _Riley_ threaten that?"

"What were you two doing yesterday night?"

John threw his hands up. "What do you think?!" Christ, it took him five minutes to get that lipstick off his neck. She probably knew already. Why bother asking? "And why does it matter?"

Cameron took a small step toward him; she was practically towering above him now, and he barely resisted the urge to gulp now. "It does..."

John turned his head a bit, as if to say _go on. _

"Somehow," Cameron said.

John laughed. "Oh, so you don't know? That's wonderful, Cam. Go inside."

"I like it out here."

"Then I'm not talking about this, okay? What I do is my business."

"You were asking about my business," she pointed out.

"Tha- that's different, okay?"

Cameron frowned distinctively. "Why?"

"Because you're the robot, and I'm the human, okay? I do things humans do, and you have to do things robots do." He was being an utter douchebag to her, and the fact that he _realized_ he was being a douchebag was perhaps the worst part of this.

"Yes," Cameron said, and then she sat down on his lap. "I do things robots do."

John stiffened up like a board. Wasn't the only thing stiffening either, goddamnit. At least she was fully dressed this time. He licked his lips and leaned back as far as he could on the chair as Cameron made herself comfortable. She was incredibly light, which was _insane_ when you thought about it.

He smirked and bopped his head a little. "Point taken. Get off."

"Do you love Riley?" She didn't get off. If anything she seemed heavier now. There we go.

John shook his knee violently, trying to dislodge her; it was no good, of course. She was staring very, very deeply into his eyes, and he made a strange noise in his throat, like he was trying to swallow a ferret. Feeling came rushing into him, like he'd been empty right before this moment. He wanted. Desired. Aspired. Everything else, all of the shit he'd been dealing with, the three dots, his doubts, his distractions, it all fell away. Right now it was, again, him and Cameron, and she was playing him like a fiddle.

"I don't know," he admitted.

"If eyes, corrupt by over-partial looks, be anchored in the bay where all men ride, why of eye's falsehood hast thou forged hooks, whereto the judgment of my heart is tied?_"_

It took John a few seconds to decipher the Shakespearian nonsense; never mind that she knew it in the first place. "You're saying she's trying to trick me."

Cameron snuggled in a tad more, and now she wrapped her arms around him. They folded together softly. Sweetly. "I'm saying you're doing stupid things because of her."

Oh god, why did she have to do this? He felt overwhelmed all of a sudden, like he could no longer defend himself. He'd had his chance. He failed. She could play any string she wanted now. Why did he question the fucking donuts?

"Dangerous things, John," Cameron said. "We told you to stop and you said you would. You lied to us."

It was _us_ now. She was trying to drag Sarah in now.

"Yeah, I did. So? We're past that now. Who gives a shit?"

A small, barely visible smile grew and brooded on Cameron's face. "Sergeant Julio Escobar had a wife and two children. Cromartie shot him once in the chest, killing him instantly." The smile, quite appropriately, disappeared. "I looked up the news report."

John's eyes started to burn. No, _no. _Do _not_ cry. You'll lose it entirely. So what? Huh? It's the past. Who cares? You made a mistake, no point in fixating on...

_Fuck, fuck, fuck. _

"Cameron," he said, his voice low and without the snarky sarcasm it had possessed a minute ago, "Why are you doing this?"

"Because no one else will," she said. "You need to stop seeing her."

"I don't _want_ to," John said. "It's bullshit that I shouldn't be my own person for at least once in my LIFE!"

Cameron leaned her head against John's. Softly. Everything about this was soft. The embrace could only be described now as loving, as warm and compassionate. That was what made the situation so horrifying to him, so surreal. "It's bullshit," she whispered, "that someone innocent must die so you can enjoy yourself with her."

John said nothing. Past saying shit. He... _felt like garbage. _He bowed his head. He was gonna cry. Great.

"You need to stop seeing her."

He blinked and looked at the Terminator. "It wasn't my fault."

He couldn't stop thinking about those cops now.

"It was just bad luck."

"It was bad luck, and it _was_ your fault."

"Stop it."

"No, John."

"Let me go."

"No. Sorry."

Well, that was it, then. He was helpless. "What do you want me to say?" he muttered. He couldn't see much. His face felt warm. His foot tapped repeatedly, on rapid-fire.

"I want you to say that you'll stop seeing Riley."

Why did it have to be so black and white? "I-I'll be more careful, I won't do anything I can't clear by you or mom, I won't..." He looked down. It wasn't about Riley anymore. Well, yes it was. It was about getting more people killed. But what were the chances if he just took his time, if he was careful?

Last night he went to a party. And he pummeled a high school junior into his own wooden floor. He would have kept going if Riley hadn't pulled him away.

But he... he wouldn't have _honestly_...

What he needed to do right now was get away from Cameron. He refused to sit here any longer.

_She_ was quiet. Waiting. Smug, perhaps? Probably.

"Alright," John said. Nodding. "Fine. I get it, okay?"

"No, I don't think you do," Cameron said.

"I'll tell her I have to stop tomorrow. First thing when I wake up, okay? Goddamnit, Cam..." He couldn't look at her.

They stared at each other for a few seconds, and Cameron finally completed the circle she'd started drawing. She leaned in and kissed him once on the lips. He barely felt it. It wasn't anything like the first one, which had been...

This felt like she was securing a lock on a door. God, she was a manipulative bitch.

"Promise," said Cameron.

The big difference, actually, was how fake it felt.

He nodded. "Promise."

She pushed herself up from his lap and hopped down onto the concrete. Brushed herself off and laid the Dunkin' Donuts bag on the railing. She stared at him, and John slowly stood up alongside her, his foot having finally calmed down.

_This is a matter of you seeing a girl and potentially getting more people killed. _

It was weird. It was all laid out, right there for him to see, and still he wanted to resist. He could make up as many justifications as he liked. He'd be more careful with her. He'd clear everything with mom. He'd explain his "special circumstances" in the barest of terms to Riley. He wouldn't act stupid. He'd think. He'd be smart.

But in the end, all he wanted was someone else to talk to. Someone normal to relate to. Riley was weird, yeah. She had her own secrets. It was sort of disquieting, but... couldn't that be overcome just by talking to her? Wouldn't it be great to hear someone _else's _problems for a change, instead of the ones he was sick of? She was real, she was _there_, and she was...

John cleared his throat. "I lied."

Cameron's face didn't change, and she didn't move a muscle. She looked almost as if she'd been expecting that.

John hardly noticed. He turned and ran through the balcony door. Sprinted to his room, nearly tripping in the darkness as he ran. Locked the door behind him, and started to breathe in slowly, haltingly. He listened. Nothing. There was nothing. Nothing except the hum of the radiator, nothing except his breathing. Cameron wasn't following. Thank god. He was afraid she would try something _horrible_ next to get him to stop, but at the moment he couldn't bring himself to care.

He felt like a coward for running, but for everything else? Fuck them. Fuck it all. It was his life. He was gonna decide how he was gonna run it. At least he wasn't trying to escape again, right? So screw them. You can't make an omelette without breaking a few eggs. What on Earth could possibly go wrong at this point with Riley, anyway?

Everything, John thought pessimistically. And those faces floated up at him again. Julio Escobar. Riley Dawson. They didn't even know each other, yet one was responsible for the others death. And he was responsible for being the middle man.

John stalked over to his bed and flung himself down into it, losing track of what he was doing, thinking, feeling. Should have never gotten up. Should have stayed in bed tonight. He felt so exhausted that he fell asleep almost immediately, and the dream that pursued him into consciousness originally now returned to follow him again. Fuck this shit. Fuck it. Tomorrow he was gonna do something _fun, _and he'd stop worrying about this shit altogether.

He'd take some time for himself, and fuck all to whoever felt the need to stop him.


	2. Stoney Faced PTSD Derek fucking Reese

**No Trespassing**

Chapter Two: Stoney Faced PTSD Derek fucking Reese

When day broke, the dream that had been following John ended its pursuit. However, like a frustrated master it dispatched a new one in its stead to keep up the chase. It was a different, one, more... vivid. More horrifying.

John could see everything. Well... he could **see**, at any rate. Things were sort of blurry, yet he had a feel for what was going on, what he was doing, what...

The other was doing.

He was laying down with someone. He was embracing... her? Him? He could feel them, feel their consistency, their... everything. He didn't even know what he was touching, and yet he could draw in every detail. He felt good. Euphoric, even, like he was high.

Or drunk. He didn't know what high felt like. Knew drunk, though.

He felt like he was banging someone. And yet he had a feeling that it wasn't that simple. Or maybe it was. The person's identity remained unknown, and all John knew was that he felt excellent. Maybe it _was_ sex.

Then why was it like watching a gore film on constant rewind? Why did it feel like torture?

He felt guilty, like he was an adulterer.

He felt amazing, like he scored the top of the class on some hard-as-fuck test.

It was a guilty pleasure, then. Nothing made sense. It was just there, open to interpretation, as all dreams are. Annoyingly.

In the end he just woke up and couldn't remember a thing, which was basically par for the course.

--------------

No matter what night held, nowadays John was rarely ever _not_ well-rested. Dropping out of school would do that to you; it throws the scheduling mechanic of a persons life right out the window, establishes a sense of doing things on your own time, whenever you want. Like waking up.

John blinked rapidly as he came to. And instead of working through the torturous process of waking up when you haven't gotten enough sleep, his immediate thought was _What's for breakfast_ instead of _Five more minutes. _It was a nice, summer time sort of feeling. It was horrific for his discipline, of course, which by all means needed even tighter regulation that it usually received, but at the time? He could have cared less. In fact, he did. He was feeling pretty good and he wanted to do something fun today.

Man, now _that_ was a good fucking feeling. Waking up after getting _more_ than the necessary ten hours could go screw itself. Being able, being _willing_ to plan your own day, on your own terms, with the people you _want_ to hang out with? Nothing could beat that. It was such a normal, yet weird thing to experience, so totally outside the "regular" John Connor way of life.

So last night was shitty. But that was okay. He'd been in a bad place mentally, and... he was probably --maybe-- still there. That was why he didn't want to brood today. Didn't want to think about Sergeant Julio Escobar, or how his own recent behavior was getting everybody he cared about (besides Riley, who didn't give a shit one way or the other) incredibly pissed off with him. He wanted to spend the day outside, make out with her again, maybe, come back home, maybe browse the net, or watch TV. As long as nothing important was happening, the world was his oyster.

Brooding was firmly outside the schedule today, with a hearty fare-thee-well.

He pushed the blanket off of him, letting it fall to the floor; it hit something and there was a slight, muffled _"Mama!", _which coaxed a surprised giggle out of John. His last room had been... well, y'know, teenager-ish, and he'd been in worse places than a house's designated nursery. Gave the room a little charm, in fact, if you were into unintentionally hilarious shit.

He gave the wall and the room a once-over; wallpaper was a myriad of warm red-white stripes and sky centric imagery, featuring dream-like visages of airplanes and clouds. The toys and the kiddie lamp were only good for some light listless poking and staring at before they became boring.

John scratched his chin. It'd have to go. He'd repaint the wall and get mom to do a garage sale, or something, for the useless crap he didn't need. He gave a parting look to the wall as he started out of his room, thinking about whatever color he'd put up instead. Man. It felt neat to just fixate on those little things. Maybe he'd get Riley to help him out; refurbishing was something he'd done a lot in his life, and often alone, or with his mother. And Cameron was too creepy to consider for helping him out, especially after all that had happened recently. She'd probably try to debate the meaning of life, or something. Or anything.

Dear god, he was still totally into her. He'd skirted that fact last night, but the way she'd played him, the way she spoke, the way she did _everything_ just right? It was evil. Evil and wrong, manipulating him like that. But in a dirty, odd sort of way it was also incredibly seductive, like doing a bad thing and hoping you'd get caught just so you had some attention. Cameron just... _did_ whatever she had to do to get him to open up. Didn't matter if it made him feel like a piece of dirt. Terminator. It's what she did. Efficiency. It's how she operated. And he didn't want to see her for the rest of the day, just in case he'd start... opening even more to her, giving her what she wanted.

Screw what they may have had. Screw the way they'd flirted, the sexual tension of yesteryear. Screw it. Screw her- Oh, man, _bad thought, bad thought. _

Brown would be a good color.

------------

"Morning!" John yelled as he tromped into the kitchen, making a bee-line for the toaster oven. There was a cinnamon pop tart with his name on it sitting right next to the thing, and he was damned if anyone else was gonna steal it before he did; disposable food tended to go quickly in this house. "Listen, I think I'm gonna spend the day out-"

"It's twelve o'clock."

John carefully managed to _not_ jump in terror as the voice floated up from seemingly nowhere. He gasped a little in his throat and whirled around, staring at the table.

Derek Reese sat there, a half-devoured bagel and newspaper squatting on the table in front of him. He nodded his head slightly as John's eyes met him, wearing a rather hilariously out-of-character set of white t-shirt and denim jeans. His right leg was casually extended to the side, like he was relaxing, or perhaps about to go out for a jog. _Derek_ himself was frowning rather deeply, and John guessed he had nothing to do with that.

Far cry from the usual military fatigues, the way he acted as if he was always on borrowed time. Well... okay, he was _still_ like that sometimes, but not when he was around the house.

Which wasn't often.

"Didn't even see you," John said, smiling. And frowning. He tried to do both at the same time and felt his face suddenly screw up, as though he were constipated.

"No kidding." Derek took a bite from his bagel and cast a glance out the window, sighing a bit.

_He's mad about something. Or depressed. _With Derek those two things, including possible psychotic rages, were rather common in this household. The way he was carrying himself, though...

John grabbed a pop tart, waiting to hear Derek chastise him for not sweeping the room first before tromping inside. He unwrapped the thing, flung it onto the toaster oven tray, and set the temperature. _Click click click click..._ went the toaster oven. John blinked and turned round slightly to stare at Derek, who was busily munching on his bagel and perusing the newspaper.

He looked back at the toaster oven.

Okay, _what? _

"Can we talk?" John sat down across from his uncle.

"Sure."

Curt responses, lack of eye contact, fixation on mundane things. John gave him another once-over. Derek wasn't even reading the fucking newspaper, he was just... staring at it. _He_ knew he was being stared at. John cleared his throat suddenly; a lump had formed. What was his deal?

"What's wrong with you?" John asked bluntly.

Derek shrugged. "You forget to shave?"

"I will!"

"Okay."

"What's your deal, Derek? You're acting all..." John clicked his tongue. He had no good word for how Derek was acting. Like he had something to hide, yet he was feeling... "... mopey and shit."

Derek looked at him. "You'd know, I guess." His shoulders shook with a solitary chuckle. Mean chuckle.

John absently blew at his hair; and remembered that most of it was gone. "Funny. What's up? Uh, were you about to go out, by the way?"

"Sure."

"You okay?" Uncle and nephew. It should have felt closer than this. Derek practically hated his guts nowadays. They practically never spoke a word to each other. God, that whole shit at Presidio Alto... was like, the last time they'd done something... uh, "positive" together.

Anyway.

Derek exhaled suddenly, long and loud. "I'm babysitting you guys today." He nodded towards the front door. "Sarah's out again. Y'know why." He moved his arm.

There was a trio of coins on the table, next to Derek's newspaper, arranged into a loose triangle. All quarters. John stared blankly at them for a few seconds, oddly wondering if he was the only one seeing them. Or the pattern they made. He looked at Derek, only to catch a wry, sort of douchey smirk from him. Yeah.

He knew. Maybe he put them there.

"Where?"

Derek shrugged. "No idea. I'm supposed to watch you guys."

"So... what, no going out?"

Another shrug: "I can't leave; you can't leave."

"Why the fuck not?" John blurted.

Derek lowered his head dismissively and took another bite. He seemed to savor it this time, really crunch and mow down on it. "You're whining. Your mother told me these words: I don't go out today, no one goes out today. We're waiting to hear from her."

John let out a long breath and sagged into his chair, like he was deflating. Well, _fuck,_ there went his day. God_damnit. _"Is she... in danger?"

Derek smirked, shaking his head. "She tells nobody here fuck-all."

"You're pissed at her."

"Wow, you really _are_ smart, aren't you?"

"Fuck you, Derek." John looked back at the toaster, avoiding his uncle's glance. "She's just trying to do what she thinks is right..."

"She's chasing phantoms and she's trying to make us believe they're real." Derek looked outside again; John caught him from the corner of his eye.

A thought occurred to John. "Were you going out today?"

Derek didn't answer.

John pulled himself back towards the table and leaned across it. "You _were._"

Derek looked back. "Yeah. I'm sort of trying to help us stay alive, you little shit."

"Bullshit," John said. "You were almost _never_ outside the house before Sarkissian tried to blow us all up. Where are you _going_ nowadays?" John spread out his hand and started to tick off fingers. "All your frie- team mates are dead, your fence got whacked by someone, we've used up almost all your stashes and you're not _telling_ us about any triple eights, so I'm guessing it isn't _that._" He stared at Derek. "I mean... what're you_ doing_?"

Derek nodded at John's pop tart, sizzling as it was in the toaster oven. "That thing's about to burn."

"Oh, shit."

John jumped up and quickly turned the dial down to _Off,_ eliciting a loud and cheerful _DING! _This unfortunately masked the sound of Derek hemming and hawing to himself as he attempted to figure out an excuse for his recent excursions.

John took out a knife and skidded the pop tart onto a plate. Thing smelled pretty good; it wasn't pancakes, so that was also a plus. He quickly wiped the knife down with a paper towel and replaced the cutlery, then went back to the table. "_So_?"

"So what, John?" He leaned over the table, his eyes having (or seemed to, anyway) gone that fucking creepy shade of greyish green they always seemed to get whenever Derek was mad. "While you plow your girlfriend in the back of a car, I'm trying to set up infrastructure for us. While that piece of..." he gestured outside, presumably to Cameron, "... defective, metal shit goes out at night and never tells anyone where it's going, _I'm _trying to find her opposite numbers. While... while _SHE_ chases a bunch of fucking DOTS I'm-"

"I am _not_ fucking Riley," John said suddenly. He didn't know why that was important, it was just the thing that stuck out. Perhaps a chivalric sense of honor, trying to protect his ladies good name. Whatever. It pissed John off that Derek would assume that.

Derek looked like he wanted to punch him in the face. Instead he just shrugged his shoulders. "Good for you, virgin. The point _is,_ I don't want you to fucking _ask_ what I'm doing, because as far as I can see it, I'm the only one doing ANYTHING useful around here. Maybe when you all come to your senses I can tell you what I'm doing."

John stared at him. _Ergo; never. _Jesus Christ, what was he _doing_ here? Fuck mom, whatever she wanted him to do. He wasn't gonna sit in this place and argue with stoney faced PTSD Derek fucking Reese all day. Y'know, what _was_ the fucker doing? Why was it so important, or so secretive that he couldn't tell his own goddamned nephew?

"Yeah," John muttered, grabbing his plate. "You do that, Derek." He pushed his chair back and stood. Guy was hiding something.

"No one else is."

John turned and stalked back to his room.

"And no going out today! I'll know if you do, John!"

"Yeah, I fucking know."

-------

Flopping down on beds in an overdramatic hurry was an art John had long since perfected from the age of fourteen.

_Then again, _he thought as he traveled through midair, _it isn't really art if no one watches you do it. _

His head struck the pillow perfectly and he stared blankly against the dark, thinking oddly that, by now, he'd moved into the realm of self-parody with all this mopey shit. He was literally self-deprecating his self-depracation.

And when you can laugh, you can desist with all the other useless shit.

He laughed.

_Okay, so you don't get to go outside today. It's cool. You've got the net. A kitchen for food. You've got hand A and hand B for all your needs. Hell, maybe you can even do something useful and look up "Alpine Fields." _

He could think about what Derek was --maybe-- hiding from them, but that would probably produce more headaches than he was willing to tolerate for now. What really pissed John off was the fact that Derek... just felt he was better than everyone else now. Like he was the only one worth his salt as a soldier. To insult his mom like that, just so cavalierly? He should have punched the guy in the face.

And then get his ass kicked. You can never win.

But what was Derek _doing_ that gave him this attitude, anyway? Maybe Cameron would know -- she was always watching people, and the virtue of her... nature gave her a clarity John and his mom perhaps lacked.

_Okay, let's not mince words. We definitely lack clarity. If we had clarity we'd have the Turk by now. _

John turned around in the bed, staring at the ceiling. It couldn't have been so important that Derek wouldn't have told mom by now. He was being secretive for a reason; you're secretive when you don't want anyone else to know, there's no other definition for it. Ipso facto, he trusted _himself_ more with the knowledge he had than Sarah, John, or even Cameron. Well, especially Cameron, but that was besides the point.

But what _was_ it? John could analyze the psychology all he'd fucking want and not get any closer to what the actual deal was.

Maybe following Derek would help. But he'd notice that, wouldn't he...

Maybe...

John's cellphone beeped loudly from the nightstand. Ah. And there was his lack of clarity right now. John grinned at no one in particular and grabbed the phone, all too glad to have a distraction from the web of conspiracies and lies. Y'know, family could be a real drag at times.

He thumbed the green call button and held it to his ear, waiting.

Riley Dawson gave him the date.

"Hey," he said.

"Wow," said Riley. "Don't you sound perky."

John rolled his eyes. "Don't worry about it. Wanna come over?"

"To the _point! _I like that." She laughed on the other line.

"Yeah, well, I'm kinda stuck here, and you know what they say about misery."

"You're sixteen years old, you know. You don't _have_ to listen to your domineering mother. There's this new place opening up on Pico Boulevard, I figured we could check it out?"

John sighed. "Did you hear what I said? I can't go out."

"Uh, yeah, I heard you, John, but has that really ever stopped you before?" He could hear the impish mischief in her voice, that lilt that made him want to abandon the over-seriousness of his life and just do whatever he wanted on his own terms.

He had to smile. "Nah."

"See? So come on, you can drive me. Or we can take the bus, it's totally your call. It sounds like you need to get outta there anyway."

John looked at the nearby clock. Nearing one. Goddamn, but he overslept sometimes. "I guess I can stay out for a little while..."

"Ha, see? A little while is all we'll need. Anyway, I'll-"

"Wait, what's this Pico boulevard place?"

"Oh, dude, it's _totally_ spooky, in a depressing way, I guess. The place got shot up by those end-of-the-world freaks about a month or two ago? They can really use the business, because everyone's just acting like it's haunted, or something. It's a neat place. Lots of lights, music-"

John gulped. "What'd it use to be called, just outta curiosity?"

"Ben's something? Ben's Place."

"Oh."

"You okay?"

"Yeah, I'm fine."

"You don't _sound_ fine, John. We can go somewhere else if you want..."

"I'd actually like that."

"Well-"

_Beep_.

John frowned and stared at the phone. **MERCY HOSPITAL L.A. COUNTY. **A number ran underneath with L.A.'s area code included. What the hell?

"John?"

"Just got a beep, I'll get back to you in a second."

Riley sounded positively flabbergasted; "Who _else_ calls you?"

John glared at the phone. "It's probably a miscall. Talk to you in a sec." He blinked and mechanically hit the call button again. Why was she so...

He laid the phone against his ear again, scooting back up a bit so his back was to the end of the bed. "Hello?"

"John."

"_Mike?_"

"Hey, John."

John stared ahead for a few seconds, not returning the greeting. Holy crap. Mike Oxferod? ...

Yeah. No kidding. Why the hell was he calling? Christ, John thought-

_"If you ever need help cracking something," John made a phone-sign with his fingers and stuck them to his ear. "Good luck."_

Oh. Jesus Christ, right _now_? He felt... jeez. Unprepared, like he was in the shower and the phone started ringing from across the house. Or an old friend calls up, asking if you wanna hang out and you haven't seen them in, like, a year.

This was doubly uncomfortable, because most old friends aren't completely in love with you.

"Uh, John?"

"Yeah, yeah, I'm here, Mike. Hey. What's, uh, what's up? How'ya, uh, how you doing?"

"Better. I can breathe on my own again. Uh, listen, I'll just get to the point, there'll be time for explanations later."

John gulped again. "Explain? Explain what?"

"Later, John. I need to get out of this place. I _really_ can't explain right now."

"You need to get out of the hospital?"

"Yeah."

"Oh, fuck, Mike... can't it wait?" Man, things just _move_ when you're not looking.

"No, it really can't."

"Aren't you still recovering?"

"I'm much, much better now, okay? Just take my word for it."

John frowned. "You know I can't do that."

Silence for a few seconds. "Yeah. We'll have to talk, won't we..."

God, with _Mike_ that could mean any number of things. "Just give me the nutshell version."

"Fine. You remember when I picked you up at that dance club?"

John remembered it perfectly. He'd gotten his ass handed to him by a soldier named Hicks and Mike arrived just in time to rescue him. And from there came much uncomfortableness and sexual tension. And gun fighting, too. He really didn't want to remember _any_ of the fallout of his running away two months ago, come to think of it.

"Yeah."

"Well, I ditched the hospital they had me at and I sort of killed a guy in the process. Then I came to get you."

"Oh."

"I had no choice, dude."

"No, I understand. So what's wrong now?"

"Well, I just get this feeling that they're about to come and collect me all over again. The nurse keeps asking about my information."

"Hold on a sec," John said, and he put the phone down, humming tonelessly to himself. This wasn't his problem. It was Mike's. He murdered a dude and now it was coming back to haunt him. Guilt. Okay. Yeah. His problem.

John sighed. He couldn't just leave the guy, though, goddamnit. They were friends. Sort of. Christ, this had better be worth the effort.

John pulled the phone up again. "Are you _sure?_ You ain't just being paranoid?"

"Dude, I needed to talk to you either way about something. It's important. Really important, trust me. Just help me, okay? Please?"

Christ, he sounded desperate. John blinked again and rubbed his forehead. Alright. If he was potentially telling the truth then he couldn't just leave the guy there.

"I'll be there in a half hour. I'll bring Cameron."

A beat. "Thank you, John."

John shrugged. "Yeah, what're friends for?"

"Bring a gun," was Mike's parting call as John thumbed the green button again. Jeez, it _was_ serious, then. John's ears perked up for a second as he stuck the phone to his ear. Was someone coming up the stairs?

"Hey, Riley?"

A flat, hissing silence greeted him.

"Son of a bitch," John muttered, attempting to redial.

Well, at least today wouldn't be boring. And besides, he wasn't in a fat hurry to revisit old ghosts with Riley, although he'd take easily take her company over LAPD dodging hijinks any day of the week, with the possibility of getting killed.

Oh well. It was the life.

His door opened slowly, and Cameron walked in. John glared at her, not exactly thrilled to see the manipulative bitch so soon. But he _did_ need her, so he absently decided to let bygones be bygones. They'd... talk later, about his problems. When it was good for the both of em'.

"Hey. I need your help."

"No time," Cameron said. "We're leaving the house."

"What?" The hell?

"Porky Pig may have left a bomb at the front door," the machine said severely, "... and Derek is checking it out. We should leave."

"_What?"_

Cameron's eyes narrowed and she advanced to the foot of the bed, grabbing his arm. "John-"

"Don't worry about it," Derek's voice yelled from downstairs. "I think we're good!"

John glanced up at Cameron. She was already looking back, her eyes huge and staring. After a second, she glanced back down at him, tilting her head, a confused half-frown on her lips.

"What the fuck is going on?" John asked slowly.

"I don't know," Cameron said, and for once he actually believed her.

"That's great," John said. "Now listen, I need you. Mike Oxferod just called from the hospital. He needs us to spring him."

"I see." She sounded vaguely like a mother who was begrudgingly allowing her teenaged kid to stay out past curfew. "I'll clear it with Derek."

John blinked. "What, just like that?"

"Yes," said Cameron. "Today's a good day to go out and do things."

She turned on her heel and walked out of the room. John stared after her, his eyebrows seemingly permanently elevated.

"What the hell?" he said to an empty room.

-------

_Five minutes earlier._

_Uppity little prick,_ Derek thought as he watched John's retreat. He sighed and glanced at the tiny bit of everything-bagel he'd been chowing on. With a grunt he scooped it up and ate it.

In reality he emphasized with the kid more than he let on. Who the fuck made Sarah Connor the boss of this whole shit, telling them where they could and couldn't go? Cromartie was dead, and no leads were forthcoming about the Turk, that goddamned useless chess computer he'd nearly bagged after capping Andy Goode. They were stuck. Stuck with nothing to go on but a collection of three dots, and some crazy reference to "Alpine Fields," whatever the hell _that_ meant.

What was left for them to do _besides_ go out and see what they could find? John was a different problem altogether, of course, but-

_Admit it. You just want to see Jessie. _

Well... yeah. But she had her uses beyond being an excellent fuck and the woman that he (still) loved. If anyone was left to help them find _anything_ about Skynet, it was her. Plus, she wanted to get rid of Cameron, and as far as Derek was concerned, that metal bitch could burn in hell.

He looked back up at John, but he'd already gone. He could hear his voice rising up from his room; probably Riley on the phone. She was the only one who ever called him.

Christ. After all that had happened, he'd been sure John would quit the bullshit and start embracing what was his and not some other person's life. But instead he just got worse with his attitude, with that blonde haired bimbo (who seemed oddly familiar, in a warped sorta way. He felt as if he'd seen her before; just a flash, nothing distinct,) with the way he and Cameron were interacting nowadays.

Sometimes... a little before Sarkissian tried that shit with the car bomb, Derek had been _sure_ those two were up to something. Something happened between them, probably around the time that fucking Sacramento Robotics cult tried to kill them. Cameron was predictably mysterious, and John carefully gave no indications that anything had happened, beyond a few instances where he'd sometimes stare off into space... Or mutter to himself. Like he was guilty about something. Anyway, whatever had happened, it definitely made them get closer.

Close enough that Derek started to privately suspect that those long times spent in John's room --alone-- were not exactly spent doing anything... erm. Productive.

By now he was pretty sure he'd been wrong about those suspicions, but really, who knew? Jessie said that John practically surrounded himself with the tin cans in the future, so would it be so much of a stretch to assume he and Cameron hadn't been a just a _tad_ into each other? Derek acknowledged the need for John to get himself a girl and spend all of that pent-up frustration, but really? With a machine?

It was disgusting. It was _wrong. _Riley made John act like a lunatic and a fool sometimes, but at least she was human. The faster Cameron got taken out of the picture, the better. She was a walking time bomb, just waiting to go off.

And the only way he could see that goal coming to fruition was if he got to see more of Jessie. But no, Sarah, crazy loon, suddenly got another fucking lead and _pow,_ she was off like a bat out of hell.

Derek stared at the newspaper, not making out anything legible, nor wanting to. Everything was going to shit. Nothing was sacred anymore. Sarah was living up admirably to her history as a basket case. She was the _one_ competent figure in this house besides the machine and Derek, and now she couldn't be relied on.

Son of a bitch. He was _so_ close to just giving up and shacking in with Jessie; he'd make sure John was alright from time to time (if he was still even _worth_ looking after,) but Sarah and the fucking metal bitch could go to hell.

Footsteps to the left.

Derek slowly dipped his hand down into the waistband of his jeans and fingered his Glock.

"John?"

"No," said Cameron's voice.

"Wonderful," Derek muttered, not releasing his hold on the gun. The machine walked into the kitchen, heading straight for the window. She was wearing that purple leather jacket she admired so much. Wasn't even that cold out here. Derek shook his head a tad, stroking his chin. For all their attention to mannerisms, to _detail,_ in the end they just didn't care. He glanced back at her.

A pistol dangled carelessly from her right hand, almost like it was a purse, or some shit. It was all the same to her. If a purse could have shot bullets, she'd have held a purse. Derek grabbed the newspaper and absently tore a piece off of it. He crumpled it in his hands.

Cameron stood at the window and scanned for a brief moment before nodding to herself. "There's a man walking away from the house." She sounded, as though to needlessly punctuate the observation, uninterested.

Derek's eyes went wide; he pulled the Glock free from his jeans and pushed up from the chair, running back to the wall immediately in front of the table; it was a corner that offered the most protection and coverage. Oh shit, not again. "_Who?_" he hissed.

She hardly moved. "He's wearing a mask." A beat. "Warner Brothers' Porky Pig."

He stole a quick look out the window; nothing. He blinked. Did she just say- "What?"

The robot looked at him. "The mask he's wearing. It's Porky Pig."

"How do you know?!" It was all he could think of saying.

"Because he keeps looking back at the house."

Silence for a few seconds. Derek stared blankly at Cameron, waiting --perhaps foolishly-- for her next bit of wisdom. All she did was turn once again to observe Porky's flight. Okay. Uh. Options: bomb, trap, practical joke. Sniper? Probably not. Bomb seemed likely. The disguise was-

"He's running," Cameron said, with absolutely no inflection in her voice. "I can no longer see him."

"We're leaving the house," said Derek. Jesus Christ, no off days even on the boring ones. He pushed off from the wall and quickly rounded the corner, looking at the front door. He scanned the thing for a quick second, for all the world as if the hypothetical trap would be there in plain sight.

"I'll tell John." Loud footsteps. Very unhurried and lazy. What the fuck was the machine's problem nowadays? No time to worry about that.

Derek took a deep breath and placed his hand on the door knob, clutching his gun in the other. The sounds from everything, the hum of the refrigerator, the radiator, the outside, birds chirping, everything seemed to suck away. He maneuvered to the side, so he could pull the door open and let it shield him. The guy couldn't have had the time to plant a bomb without Cameron noticing. Right? Right. Couldn't be a trap. It was just...

But what if-

Derek exhaled and pulled the knob, wincing in readiness for the expected blast.

Nothing happened. No tugging of tripwire, no impossibly loud _click_ as the trigger is set off. Door just swung open, easy as you please. Derek breathed again and quietly poked his head out, the pistol held aloft; there'd been no gunshot, so it probably wasn't an assassin, either. If he was waiting, he'd get a bullet before Derek did. His fault for waiting. Derek stared into the sun drenched outside world for a few seconds before lowering the Glock with a small "huh" sound.

The neat little stone patio was unoccupied. There was a note on the ground, held secure underneath a brick. Beyond that, everything else was totally normal. A car drove slowly up the road and continued on, loud music pounding forth from it.

Derek slipped out, avoiding the note and the brick. He checked the steps. Nothing. The bushes were also clear. Driveway looked fine. A quick jog up to the sidewalk revealed nothing of where Porky Pig had gone off to. He must have booked it after clearing the street. Except for the note...

Derek stood there for a few seconds, looking eastward now.

_Damn._

He kicked the brick off and snatched the note from the ground, walking back inside. He cast another, ultimately useless sweep around the area before he closed the door behind him. Maybe a joke.

"Don't worry about it!" he yelled. "I think we're good!"

Silence for a second. Derek frowned and started to unwrap the note.

What the fuck was going on? He pulled the note open from its rubber band holding, and read.

_If you want to see Kyle to live past this day, go to the park. You know where. _

Derek blinked and re-read the message. Short, simple, to the point. The world seemed to start spinning gaily around him while he just stayed put. What-

"What did you find?" Cameron stood at the bottom of the stairs. He hadn't even heard her come down.

Derek crumpled the note up and jammed it in his pocket.

"Nothing, we're good. Practical joke." His voice was a rasp, and he made no attempts to hide that.

Cameron looked out the window again. She didn't see the note. Did she? He had to get his fatigues. That was all he'd need. Oh, man, how did this happen? How did this happen?

"Children can be troublesome," said Cameron.

"Yeah, they sure can." Derek ran over to the coat closet and grabbed his fatigues. Kevlar was the only thing he had going for him right now, and it'd have to do. There was no time, no time at all.

"You're going out."

"Yeah."

"You're not telling me something." She looked back at him again.

"Yeah, I'm not." Derek stared at her, as if expecting some defiance. _What're you gonna do about it?_

But she just nodded with no expression on her face. "John and I are going out, too."

"Wonderful." And the horse you rode in on, Sarah Connor. He grasped the door knob and gave one last look towards Cameron. She was still standing in that posed-doll stance of hers, waiting for him to leave. Derek grunted and started past the door.

"Derek?"

Derek paused. He looked back at her, frowning.

"Be careful."

Like she cared. But at the time, it was at least _some_ form of reassurance, so he gulped and nodded toward her, and then he was gone and out the door with nary a glance back.

**AN: **Merry Christmas!


	3. Never Use the Front Door

**No Trespassing**

Chapter Three: Never Use the Main Entrance

"Where's Derek?"

John passed Cameron, not waiting for an answer, and went straight for the coat closet. He pulled his leather jacket for a second, considered the thing, and replaced it. He reached deeper and pulled out an identical version; the only difference was that it was heavier and harder to move around in.

Cause it had kevlar sown into it.

"He's gone."

"Yeah," John said, pulling the thing on and tugging it down a tad until it was at least somewhat comfortable. "I noticed. Where's he gone?"

There was a rattling jangle as Cameron grabbed the keys. John cupped his hands, expecting her to toss them to him. Instead she walked to the door, found it unlocked, and opened it. She looked at John, moving her head slightly, as though questioning him.

"You're not letting me drive?" John frowned.

Cameron tilted her head the other way, seemed to think for a moment, and tossed them to John. He caught them with one hand, feeling slightly dazed.

They stood still and watched each other for longer than John would have normally allowed.

He cleared his throat and moved past Cameron, shivering in a way that had nothing to do with being cold. She just wasn't the same thing anymore, no other way to see it. He didn't like that at all.

"Christ, he didn't take the Ram?"

"He was running towards the park."

John blinked and looked back at her; nearly tripping over a stray brick in so doing. "What the hell is going on?"

"A man left him a note. He was wearing a mask."

"Porky Pig," John said sensibly. He jabbed the keys into the car slot, turned sharply, and opened the door.

"Yes."

"And what, Derek just took off?"

"Yes."

John didn't say anything. He cleared his throat uncomfortably and sat down. He looked up, frowned and adjusted the rear-view mirror; Derek was constantly changing it, pissed him off something awful. Cameron entered the pickup from the passenger side and nodded to him. She wasn't wearing anything to cover the cold; sensible given her nature, but she was usually good about appearances. It just bothered John, that was all there was to it. She'd either make a point of talking about heat, cold, sensation, whatever. And sometimes she just didn't give a shit.

John put the car in reverse and went off the driveway, then up into drive and they were off.

They were silent for a pretty long time. There was a lot of shit going through John's mind, which was basically par for the course. You never say anything to anyone. You just think it. You never talk. You keep everything bottled up where it can stay good and secured. It was how he'd been operating basically ever since Cromartie first attacked him in a New Mexican school.

His chief worry was about Mike. Two months, maybe a little more, plus or minus, and then he just calls out of the blue without any explanation. John was more than willing to believe he just wanted to get out of the hospital; he fucking killed a guy, and who knew what other crimes he'd committed during that week? He couldn't hide forever. John understood the need completely. He just...

He just hoped it was more than that. That Mike wasn't flat-out lying to him and merely using him as an escape route. John stared ahead, the only sound being the gentle thrumming of the engine.

He wouldn't do that, John thought. Mike wouldn't use him like that. Maybe Derek would. Cameron would, definitely. Not Mike. The guy wanted to stay on John's good side, for a very simple reason. He was a friend. That was how John saw it, and often that was enough. It was enough to do something for a friend.

For Mike? He wouldn't lie simply because he was in love with John.

John rubbed his head a tad. He had a feeling a headache was developing. Did that ever really dawn on John? That he was loved by another guy?

When he was fourteen, living in West Fork, there was this girl sitting across from him in English class who kept looking at him. John had been annoyed. He was annoyed with a lot of stuff that young. He thought she --Nicole, that was her name-- was trying to tease him, make him feel uncomfortable.

Sarah thought otherwise. She said Nicole merely had a crush on John. Crush. Yeah. He got it. Girl wants to bang a guy, or vice versa. He knew of the concept from an age that would appall most mothers, but he'd never really _understood _it, of course, until now.

From there, things sort of exploded into a million incomprehensible feelings for him. He couldn't talk to the girl. He just couldn't do it. Or it was the other way around. He wanted her to come to him. He knew better than that now.

When she got a boyfriend about a month later, he felt jealousy. It was a shocking thing to experience, and he remembered just sitting in his room for a while, staring at nothing in particular, just thinking.

A week after that and he went into a bike shop with Charley, and he couldn't get the woman behind the counter out of his head. She was probably two or three years his senior and she was... just... stellar. For him at the time? She was there, _he_ was young, something about her just clicked and stayed in his mind. She had this... dimple on her left cheekbone that he couldn't _not_ stop seeing, like it was imprinted in his mind. She had a bit of asian blood in her, he thought. The dimple was perhaps the most inconsequential part of her, and yet it was what stood out most. When he haltingly explained this to Charley, his would-be dad merely grabbed his shoulder, pulled him close and said "love is weird, Johnny."

The next day he purposefully broke his bicycle chain and asked for it to get repaired. Love was weird.

_And now,_ John thought oddly, _Mike feels exactly the same way about me. _

The silence was getting oppressively tedious now. Cameron was dead as a stone for all John could tell. Just staring. What was going through her mind?

John reached over and turned on the radio.

_"- and here's another ol' classic for you kiddies out there, ehehehe."_

John smirked. Getting right into it. He liked that.

Music started up, slow and full of rich saxophone tunes. It accelerated in due time, reaching the lyrics in due time.

Rhythm and blues. Not John's favorite, but Cameron seemed oddly fascinated. She hadn't hear it before. He removed his hand from the dial.

_"I'm... I'm so in love with yo-o-u. Whatever you waaant to do is alright with m-e-e-e-e..."_

And _he_ felt that way about Cameron.

Riley was different. Riley felt... appropriate. There was very little passion, very little...

She was appropriate.

_"Cause you make me feel so brand n-e-e-e-w."_

Anyway.

Mike, all of that... The whole situation was weird in a way John couldn't quite place. Knowing about that girl in English class was like... It felt like being born. And Mike?

That felt like growing up and learning that life sucks. The weirdest thing about it was easily traceable, of course. Mike was a guy. John was a guy. And the twain shall not meet. Both of them had ought to know that.

But no, it wasn't as simple as that. Mike was just wired differently. So what then?

Well, simply tell him no.

_"And I-i-i-i want to spend my life with y-o-o-ou."_

But that doesn't make a difference in how _he_ feels. Love was weird.

You. You have to find a way to settle this so it doesn't turn into a "thing." _You,_ John. Mike has something to tell us, and so you're gonna have to make contingencies in case he... y'know, starts to get clingy again.

_And what contingency will _that _be?_

John tapped the steering wheel; it felt like he was slamming on it. He'd have to find something, and that was all there was to it, goddamnit.

God, he hoped this would be easy. In and out. If there was any action it'd just create a whole bunch of problems that he just didn't need.

_"L-e-e-et's... let's stay together... Loving you whether..."_

He looked at Cameron. "You got a gun?"

She looked at him, just sort of clicking her head to the side. "No."

John blinked and glanced back out at the road. "Why not?"

"You didn't ask me to." She turned back to the window; "I can't read minds."

"Well, fuck."

_"... whether times are good or bad, happy or sad."_

"Why," Cameron asked. "Do we need one?"

"We _always_ need one, Cameron," John said.

She merely frowned at him, as if he were missing the point. "Are we likely to encounter hostiles?"

_"Ooooooo, yeah."_

John cleared his throat. "I dunno. Mike-"

"Why does Mike need to escape a hospital? It's safe for him there." After a moment she added, "Relatively."

_"Whether times are good or bad, happy or sad."_

"He thinks the cops are gonna try and catch him there. They've been digging around and he's getting worried."

"And he's asking us for extrication."

"Yeah."

_"It's why I want us to... le-e-e-et's... let's stay together..."_

"This isn't relevant to our mission." Her tone of voice didn't change, which made the statement no less dismissive.

"_This _is our mission right now, Cam. If that hasn't dawned on you yet, well, there it is."

She looked back at him. "If you come into danger, we drop everything and leave. Deal?"

John moved one hand off the steering wheel and shook her hand. As usual, her grip was deceptively weak. "Deal."

_"Loving you whether... whether time's are good or bad, happy or sad, c'mon, LE-E-E-TS..."_

John smiled. "You're being pretty cool about this." He scratched the back of his neck.

"I do my best," Cameron said simply.

"Haha... Uh, well, any reason for it? Mom definitely wouldn't let this go on, and you're more strict than _her_ sometimes."

"That depends. Do you _think_ it'll be dangerous?" She looked at him, eyes low and probing.

John lied.

"Then I'm willing to make amends in this case." Cameron stared back onto the road.

The song ended, the speaker's voice slowly fading.

"Amends?" Wait...

"For causing you discomfort yesterday night."

John's head whipped toward her, his mouth slightly open in surprise. "Wait, what?"

"You're about to hit a pedestrian."

"_Fuck me-"_ John jerked the steering wheel slightly to the side, avoiding the jogger by a comfortable margin. Still got John cussed at, but at least the guy wasn't dead. The woman's angry voice faded into the slipstream.

"You should pay more attention," Cameron said, almost like they were discussing the stock market.

John could have cared less. "Ye-you're apologizing?"

"Yes."

He settled back into his seat, his hands seeming to constrict instinctively around the steering wheel until he could see the plastic rising up between his fingers. He stared ahead for a very long time before he managed to make some sort of noise in his throat. "Really."

"Yes. What's wrong?"

John made himself shrug. "Uh, nothing. It's just... well, uh. You don't really... do that a... whole lot. It's just... surprising."

"I was foolish in choosing to have that conversation when I decided to. You weren't emotionally receptive to it. It wasn't the right time."

"I'll say," John murmured. Louder he said; "So when _is_ the right time? Uh, in your opinion..." He couldn't even think about this, only that it was...

Sweet of her. In a warped sort of way. She 'd apologized. Cool.

"I'll know when." She smiled reassuringly at him, and he wasn't reassured in the slightest. Maybe he didn't need to be. "Trust me."

John didn't say anything. He didn't care. He just sort of grinned at her, and he didn't say a goddamned thing.

------------

The lobby of Mercy Hospital was boiler plate; exactly what you'd expect to find in any metropolitan medical center, really. Big waiting room with soft blue carpeting, white walls, plenty of posters helpfully written in large letters. Like the lobby, they were the stock fare.

It also looked rather quiet and sparse on people, except for the pair of cops sitting around the waiting room. John watched them from the corner of his eye as he and Cameron walked up to the front desk. This place was pretty familiar, and he basically knew his way around; he'd been here only a few months ago, after all.

One cop, a big guy with a thick brown moustache and plenty of flabby bits on his face, was rifling through a magazine with a generous amount of guns featured on the cover. Probably brought it himself. Anyway, the guy was sitting with his feet put up on one of the wooden end-tables. He seemed pretty engrossed in what he was looking at.

The other guy was as thin as the first was fat, seeming almost like a rope if you looked at him from the side. His arms and legs were like sticks, and he had this long, almost horse-like face, topped off with a no-doubt strictly enforced crewcut of blond hair. He was standing off to the side on the waiting area, staring at John and Cameron as they entered. John tilted his head somewhat as he regarded the officer. Not too big. He'd go down easily if it came to that. The cop who was sitting down also didn't look as if he had much fight in him. Both of them were armed, though. John blew slightly upwards his forehead. Hm.

He turned to the front desk just as the receptionist greeted them.

"Howdy, you," she said, grinning at the pair of them. John glanced at Cameron. Most people thought they were related, and the receptionist seemed to be under the same impression. Why did no one ever consider the possibility of...

Eh. "Welcome to Mercy Hospital," the woman continued.

"Hey," John said, keeping his voice low. "We're visiting one of your patients, uh, Mike Oxferod."

The woman's eyes went wide, her mouth forming a near-perfect O. "Oh my, I think you may have picked a bad time to come see him."

John chuckled nervously; it was half appearances, half sincere. "Uh, why's that?"

The woman licked her lips, folding her arms together. "Uh, I'm not sure if I'm allowed to say." She glanced conspicuously at the cops.

"We're his friends," John said, sagging his shoulders a bit. Christ, he didn't want to do this, but he couldn't remember the damned room they had Mike in.

"Very good friends," Cameron added.

The woman frowned, and she licked her lips again. "Well, the thing is, I think he's getting talked to by the L.A.P.D... soon. I think he might have witnessed a crime, or something. They didn't really tell us much."

John nodded a few times. "Yeah, well, he got shot a bunch of times a few months ago."

"Oh, was it those end-of-the-world freaks?"

"I think so."

"It was," said Cameron.

"I thought they were all in prison," the receptionist said, and it sounded almost as if she were pouting.

"We're just visiting for a little while," John said.

The woman sighed. "Alright, I'll pencil you in, but you'll have to wait a while." She leaned over her desk, grabbed a nearby pencil, and poised it over the check-in booklet. "I guess it's nice of you kids to come see him, mostly it's just been his sister and dad. So what's your-"

"Why do we have to wait?" said John.

The woman blinked and looked back up. "The cops are already up there, son. I think they'll be done soon, though. Names?"

John laughed nervously again; and it was all sincere this time. He had to stop himself from looking back at the cops in the lobby. Cameron was already looking towards the doors; the ones that led to the rest of the hospital. "Uhh, I guess we'll come back some other time, and uh, what room's he in? So we know when we get back."

"You're not gonna sign in?"

"Not right now," John cleared his throat loudly, trying to think. "Some other time."

"Well, alright. He's on the third floor, room, uh... 1908." The receptionist was frowning rather blatantly now, and her green eyes kept darting back and forth between John and Cameron.

"Thanks a million," said John, and he grabbed Cameron's arm. She tilted her head and allowed herself to be dragged. "C'mon, uh, Allison."

Cameron's system suffered a momentary, nano-second long malfunction as the name was processed. She blinked once and tilted her head slightly. "Okay."

"You're welcome," the lady behind the desk said as they left. The thin cop watched them as they exited through the front door, and John immediately looked from side to side as he stepped back into the sunlight.

"Damnit," he muttered. Think, think, think. Okay. Uhh... Find a door. Another door. Right. Good.

"Are we leaving?" Cameron asked.

"No. Help me find a side entrance, maintenance stairway, something." He started along the east side of the building, wincing as an ambulance with sirens wailing roared into the parking lot. "We need to hurry."

"We can use the front door."

"Cam..."

"It'd be the quickest way." She wasn't moving to help him.

"And the dumbest."

"The intelligence of entrances doesn't factor into mission planning."

"Look, just _help me_, okay? They could be dragging him down to the lobby already."

Cameron fell silent and started to follow John as he circled around the building, watching the white concrete wall like a hawk. John kept tapping his leg with his hand, and he started to think that maybe he was developing a nervous tic that had to do with tapping things incessantly.

They found a green side-door near the ER terminal about two minutes later, and the whining of nearby ambulances threatened to drown out all sound in the area. John ran his eyes briefly over the door and gave it a tug; locked. Of course. He stepped back and nodded at Cameron. When in doubt, use the robot.

She gave him a little half-smirk, as though she were aware of this, and pulled the lock --and most of the door handle-- off with one jerking of her hand. The door flipped open easily enough after that. John gave a brief glance over to the ambulances and went on inside. A bunch of dusty metal stairs greeted the pair.

"Third floor," John said. "Close that thing behind us, okay?"

Yeah. Today was sure gonna be boring. You should know better than that by now, John.

She did, and they started up the stairs at a half-run. They did this in silence for a little bit until they reached the first floor, and then there were footfalls all around them as doctors and nurses and probably patients move around beyond the staircase, ignorant of the two infiltrators. This thing probably wasn't used all too often.

John laughed.

"Y'know what I noticed, Cam?"

"What did you notice?"

"I noticed we never use the main entrance. We always take some other, sneaky way." He took a moment to shake a kink out of his right leg and kept going. As he did this, Cameron stopped to wait for him, and then resumed following when he moved on again.

"Using back ways is safer," she said. "There's less resistance."

"Yeah. But we never use the main entrance. Ever. Always too dangerous, or we're just too paranoid to even try it." He grunted and consciously stopped himself from tapping his leg. "Every time we go out, we just either go in shooting or we sneak. Y'know?"

"You're saying you wished we could use the front door."

"And pick up Mike like any normal people would, yeah." He sighed. "I mean, it's smarter this way, but just one day I'd like to use the front door. You know what I mean?"

"I know what you mean, John."

John reached another landing and looked at the door there, marked with a stenciled number **3. **He nodded back at Cameron, she nodded back at him, and they went through the door together.

-----------

_A little earlier. _

The circus theme started playing.

Mike Oxferod turned away from the window and shot a glare at what was probably _the_ most annoying cellphone in the entire fucking universe. When he first received it about a month ago he thought the "ring-tone" was funny, and he immediately asked if he could change it. The nurse just frowned at him, saying that it was hers (a spare) and that she was lending it to him. And that those ring-tones cost money to change. So Mike relented. Now whenever it rung you'd hear the sounds of clowns tromping out onto the three rings, honking their noses and shit, and it was doubly annoying for Mike because he'd never been to a circus, let alone knew what a clown even looked like.

One thing you realize when you've spent your life at war: it's either very easy to become accustomed to civilian life, or become annoyed at its silliness. Mike fell somewhere in-between. The cellphone just irritated him.

He hobbled over to the desk and grabbed it, not bothering to check the ID. He already had a fairly good idea of who it was, and he didn't have much time to waste.

"Hey," he said. He started back towards the window, taking a moment to catch his breath at the hospital bedpost. He wouldn't complain about _that, _because at least he could walk now.

"Hello," said Philip Westin.

Mike blinked. Oh. "Uh, hey dad."

"How'ya feeling?" He sounded worried, probably because Mike was breathing so hard.

"I'm, uh... I'm good." Mike reached the window and stared at it for a little bit. It was one of those double-hung slash windows with a wooden partition separating the two panes. Offered a good view of L.A., was about... maybe six feet off the ground in total height. Mike put his hands underneath the latch and pushed up. It budged promptly. Still locked. Mike's eyes popped out slightly at the exertion.

There. There was another thing that pissed him off. After fourteen fucking years of avoiding HK drones, he'd _never_ been badly injured, but _two_ years after teleporting back to the comparatively safer "past?" He got shot twice, fell in love, and was hospitalized with a developing form of asthma, of which he still couldn't suss out the pronunciation. All he knew was that it made it difficult for him to breathe.

One could call that karma, Mike supposed. He killed a lot of people ever since coming "back" to this place, and not all of them deserved it.

Well. He was nothing if not attempting to atone nowadays.

"You don't _sound_ good..."

"How's Cheri?" Mike asked. He swiped a hand over his head, dispelling a few beads of sweat, and looked up the length of the window to find the lock situation well above his reach. He could _lean_, of course, but that would probably knock the air out of him. He decided to try it anyway.

"She's at school. She misses you a whole lot, Michael."

"I miss her, too." He started to get up on his toes to try and knock the latch back into the unlocked position. Almost immediately he started trembling and he had to fall back down. Christ, this was a pipe-dream. Why was he even bothering?

"Mike..."

"I'm okay."

"Are you doing something right now?"

"Sort of."

Philip said nothing for a little while. "Ah."

Mike glared at the phone. "So I noticed you didn't come today..."

"Mike. I've got a life to take care of. I know you probably don't _see_ things that way, but..."

"I'm sure your life will be worth plenty in four years time." He leaned up to try again, and this time he nearly fell back onto the floor on his ass. He put a hand up on the wall to stabilize himself. Okay. So that wouldn't work.

"... Mike, I'm just getting you riled up, I'm sorry. How about I call later?" Man, Philip was a cool customer.

"Naw, it's good," said Mike. He sucked in a breath and looked back across the room. The chair would work. "We should really talk about what's gonna happen, though."

"Actually, we don't. We're going to keep going with our lives and hope your friends fix it."

"And if they don't?" Mike walked over to the chair, grabbed the back of it, and started dragging.

"This'll have to come at another time, Michael. I called to see if you were okay. I'm sorry I couldn't make it and you'll have to deal with that. I'm sorry. That's life."

Mike said nothing and continued to drag the chair over to the window. He did this haltingly for about a minute until he'd reached the window, and he climbed up on top of the chair, easily in touching distance of the latch now. He flicked the latch to the side, unlocking the thing, and he climbed down.

"Mike, what're you doing?" Philip asked, sounding pretty much exasperated now.

"I'm trying to secure an escape route in case the cops show up. I shot a guy two months ago when I escaped the _first_ hospital you sent me to, y'see. So yeah, I think they're catching on."

"M-Mike, what?"

The door to the hallway opened up, and Mike glanced back at the police officer who stood there. The officer was wearing plainclothes and had a pretty impressive build. No identification, but Mike knew he was a cop.

"Yep?" Mike said.

"Are you Michael Oxferod?" the man asked.

"Naw, he's down the hall, I think," said Mike.

"Ah, my apologies. Must've got the wrong room, kid. You feel better now!" And he left, casting a look towards someone Mike wasn't able to see.

That would probably buy him one or two more minutes.

"Mike, who-who was that?"

"A cop."

"Is he-"

"He just left."

"Ah." Some hemming and hawing on the other line.

Mike opened the window and stared down for a few seconds. Three story drop, unfriendly winds to say the least, and the window was facing the parking lot, which offered witnesses a ton of opportunities to see him descend... _if _he could descend, goddamnit. He looked back at his hospital room, and at the bed. Some well-worn blankets and a bed sheet. It wouldn't be enough. If he was healthy he'd be able to manage it, probably, but with this asthma or whatever the fuck it was called he'd just end up breaking his neck.

He slowly pulled himself back into his room and sat down on the chair, all the drive and inspiration for escape having left him. He'd have to wing it. Fuck.

He'd read somewhere (probably wikipedia) that a person is supposed to feel most serene when confronting their fate. A man turning himself in, or committing suicide, or, y'know, about to die. They accept it. It's their time to face the music, and they're only gonna be seen as less dignified if they don't just... go along with it. One time he read that some British guy actually shook the hands of a bunch of men who were about to shoot him. As far as deaths went, that was probably one of the better ones.

Mike didn't know much about dignified captures, though, and he had a feeling that_ his_ impending capture probably wouldn't be all that relenting at all. In fact, he intended to cause as much trouble as humanly possible.

Hell. He had to hope John would get here in time. He wanted to get the fuck out of here, sure, but there was a little something more... important going on that John had to know about.

After a while, Philip said; "I think this is something we should talk about."

"What?"

"You're, uh, killing... of somebody. It's..."

"I... I know, okay?"

"You're sixteen years old," Philip said. "It's... wrong, Michael. Why didn't you tell me about-"

"Yes," Mike said, and everything, his entire built-up casualness, it came crashing down. All the tension, the things he'd been ignoring for two months of languishing in a hospital came roaring back to greet him. "Yes, I'm sixteen years old, and yeah, I've killed somebody, Philip. I _fucking_ killed someone because it was either him or me, and I-I see his face every _single goddamned day now_. His fat fucking face, with that _gun_ pointed at my chest. I killed him. I did it out of cold fucking blood. I'm six..."

"Mike..."

"I'm _sorry_, Philip," Why was he apologizing? _Who_ was he apologizing to? Oh god, why was he doing this _right_ now? Jesus, fuck, he wanted to do something now. He wanted to see John again, get back into the routine, get back into _life,_ and now he was gonna get captured. Fucking... "Y-you know what else?"

Silence.

"I'm done," Mike said.

"Done with what?" His father sounded oddly resigned.

"I'm never gonna kill anybody, anymore. Ever. That's what I decided." Mike let out a haggard breath and ran his palm over his face. Odd how that just came out of nowhere. "We can talk about this later, alright? Some other time. I gotta get outta here."

A beat. "Be careful, Michael." And after all that incomprehensibility, he still didn't give a fuck. He was just concerned about a kid who wasn't even his. Amazing.

Mike hung up and flung the cellphone onto the bed. And then he put his hands on his head and waited for a little while, just thinking to himself.

Maybe no one was coming.

Well. He'd have to get out by himself, then.

He went over to his laptop (hidden under his pillow) and retrieved a flash-drive that was sticking out of it. He frowned at it and cupped the thing in his hand.

The door opened once again and the cop from before strode on inside, looking comparatively less friendly than he had before.

A/N: Was gonna write more, but I've already written enough. Some action in the next chapter.


	4. Things Have Changed

**No Trespassing **

Chapter Four: Things Have Changed

It was a pretty nice day. It was always a nice day if you lived in Los Angeles and didn't have to worry about the foggy sky that could conceal oncoming death on wings, if you didn't need to worry about your body getting cooked just because you stepped into the wrong building.

Derek kept his stride regular and unhurried as he made his way through the park, beautiful and very much _un_worried as it was. The trees lining the pavilion shivered in the wind, leaves going to and back. They weren't quite on the verge of falling yet, and they kept a steady green color. Fall tended to come late around here. He could remember... when he was fourteen, being shocked at how early the leaves fell when his family vacationed up in Vermont, half-way across the country. It was damned cold there, too. Hardly ever snowed in Los Angeles, and it seemed to have no trouble over there. When they were up there, he had to suppress the urge to ask people how they dealt with it. And he figured, maybe, he didn't need to know. They certainly didn't. It was their natural way. They _liked_ it.

Yeah. This version of things was better.

In some ways, at least. When you looked deeply enough you'd find a bunch of niggling problems, of course.

For instance: you've got a nice, picture-esque Californian park with tons of playing children and all that good shit, right? Weather's nice, leaves have yet to fall. Well, imagine you've been asked to go there because your younger brother is in mortal peril. So there could be _anything_ waiting for you.

See? Present imperfect.

Derek moved his Glock from his waistband to the inside of his fatigues. He wasn't sure which location would make it easier to retrieve the gun in case he needed it quick, and so he kept changing it every five seconds. If he weren't going _fucking_ crazy in his own mind, he'd probably have a good idea of where to put it. He'd probably be cool.

But he _was not _cool. He had _no_ good ideas. He felt like he was the sole survivor of a shipwreck, thousands of miles away from land. Confused, lost, unable to think. Someone had Kyle. Someone, probably, wanted to kill Derek, or at least get something out of the Connors.

_If you want to see him alive... Alive. Alive. _Alive. And really, it wasn't about Derek at all getting killed, or John, or Sarah.

It was Kyle. Even before any of the _shit_ with Judgment Day, he was getting involved.

What could you say to that? You couldn't.

Robots just fucking kill you in the future, they don't give a damn who you are unless your name ends with "Connor" and begins with "John." Yeah, it takes a _special_ sort of evil to kidnap a child and threaten to _kill_ that innocent child unless _you_ did something for _them. _

Just for that. Just for _that_ alone, Derek didn't give a shit whether this had something to do with Skynet. He'd get Kyle home. _That_ was important. He was gonna get Kyle home, he was gonna ask Kyle what happened, and he'd _murder every single last one of the sons of bitches who started this._

... Course, he had to _find_ out just what the hell was going on first...

He finished his circuit around the park pavilion and scratched his chin. Place was reasonably filled with adults and some small children who were too young to be in school yet. A few college-aged kids were at the far end of the pavilion, armed with some boxes. They looked dark, moody, and terribly enthusiastic at the same time. Some charity work, probably.

No one had bothered to confront him yet, and he'd spent the better part of a half-hour patrolling the sidewalk outside the park. Not a peep in his direction. He shifted his gun's location again and walked across the street, onto the grass. The... noises of people frolicking, talking, just _being_ seemed to explode all around him now. There were a lot of voices, and he couldn't bring himself to focus on any individual sounds at all.

What good would it do? He was powerless. He had to keep walking around here and hope something would happen.

Goddamnit, he hated that. He hated not being able to do anything.

The college kids were giving him dirty looks, while everyone else politely ignored him, like they always did. They thought he was a veteran. You were supposed to respect the veterans, Derek knew, but college kids held a different interpretation of that. The current war was pretty unpopular.

Derek could understand that. Sure. If you were young, idealistic, and thought you could change the world, of course you'd think that it was okay to hate veterans. The "civilian killers." The criminals.

He passed the college kids, not bothering to look at them. Derek found himself visualizing a young kid calling him a "machine-baby killer," and then he found himself visualizing him punching that young kid in the face.

He kept going onto the dirt path, his eyes moving back and forth like searchlights, sweeping the area. The hotdog vendor spot was just ahead, but there was no one around. Probably her off-day. Or it was too early? Or too late? What time was it?

A pair of running feet behind him, coming on fast. Derek grabbed the handle of the pistol and pulled it out of his waistband slightly, turning his head to watch two joggers run past, panting and smiling to each other. They were gone down the dirt path.

Derek replaced the Glock in his fatigues and kept going.

He thought about going back to the house, collecting his thoughts there. Only for a second, though. He couldn't just...

He made himself sit down on the first bench he could find. It was blue and flecked with white chips all over it. The back end was coming off slightly, having separated itself from the nails that had kept it in place. Derek didn't mind. He sat on the other end, put his arms over the back of the bench and just sat there, observing the area.

Really, though. What would anyone know about Kyle? Why would anyone try and get him, and further, how would they know... _Lieutenant_ Derek Reese had _anything_ to do with boy? This had to be related to... well, everything. Everything. It would make no sense otherwise, unless they just thought Derek was... his guardian, or something. But why him? Why not dad? Or mom? Hell, why not... _him_ when he was younger?

No, instead, it was _him _and Kyle, not_ anyone else_ and Kyle.

Derek sighed and planted his hands on his forehead. Jesus Christ... it wouldn't do to start panicking over this. He had to keep a cool head, or so help him he'd end up regretting this day for the rest of his life.

After a little while he opened his eyes again and found himself staring at someone's chest. Said chest was flabby and dressed in a black sweatshirt with inside pockets, which were filled with something bulky. A gun. Derek blinked and looked up.

The man wore a mask. Of what, Derek couldn't see, because the sun was hovering behind the guy's head, and he knew it was a mask because no one's head would look that way naturally.

They just watched each other for a while. Derek kept his fist closed around the Glock handle and he started working on pulling down the hammer slowly, so it didn't make any noise.

Mask eventually cleared his throat. "Derek?"

Derek nodded very slightly, clearing his throat as well. As he cleared his throat, he pushed down the hammer fully He thought the sound was rather well concealed, but he couldn't be sure.

Mask reached into his sweatshirt pockets and let his hand stay there. "You got the note?"

"Yeah," Derek said, casting a casual glance around the surrounding area. He licked his lips. No one within a hundred yards, but that didn't mean they weren't _there_, right?

"May I see it?" The man reached his free hand out.

"Why do you need to see it?"

Mask was silent for a moment. "You don't want to question us, Derek, just let me see the note."

Derek released his grip on the Glock and started pulling the note out of his left pocket. In that moment, Mask suddenly sank his hand into Derek's fatigues and grabbed the pistol by the barrel. He yanked it out before Derek could even blink and tucked it into his sweatshirt pocket. It made a pretty noticeable indentation there along with the other weapon.

"Keep the note," the man said, sounding smug.

"You fucking son of a bitch-" Derek jumped up.

Mask spoke quickly; "I don't call back in ten minutes and Kyle..." He made a cutting gesture across his throat.

Derek sat back down.

"You're a smart man, Derek. May I sit with you?"

"No," Derek said, "You can't."

"And why is that?"

"You just can't."

"Your choice."

Mask shifted on his feet. He looked uncomfortable. Derek sat there and glared at him, seeing the mask's features now. It was of a woman with peach blonde hair. She had very blue, very open eyes, a large nose and to the sides of that were incredibly pronounced dimples. A caricature. She was grinning, and every tooth showed. Derek knew this woman from TV. She was campaigning for President, but her name escaped him.

The eyeholes were the only open part of the mask, and Derek could see tiny brown eyes watching him intently.

Mask sucked in a breath. "Here's the deal, Derek-"

"How do you know my name?"

"You don't wanna ask that. Here's the deal, _Derek. _You're gonna be in downtown at six o'clock PM tomorrow evening. The hotel Regal Suites. If you need directions, I can provide them for you." The masked man cocked his head.

Derek shook his head. He wanted to rip the mask off and beat the fucker to death with it instead of sitting here, enjoying his "hospitality."

"Alright. You're gonna say to the man at the front desk 'I believe we have a friend in common.' You're gonna have one million dollars in cash with you. You're gonna go up to the hotel room the man _tells_ you to go to, you're gonna lay the money down by the door, and you're gonna go back to the lobby and in ten minutes, lil' Kyle Reese will be sent down to you. And then... you're gonna leave."

Derek said nothing. He looked away, licking his lips. Fuck. _Fuck..._

"A few caveats, Derek," the man said sweetly. He was warming to the conversation, apparently. "If you don't do this by at least eight o'clock, we're going to shoot Kyle in the head, and then we're gonna dump his body here in the park. We're giving you plenty of time to do this, so we doubt that'll be a problem.

Don't bother coming and earlier than the time I gave you, cause we won't be there. If we hear any gunfire or lose contact with the receptionist, we will shoot Kyle. If I don't report in in ten minutes, we'll shoot Kyle. If you bring anybody with you and the receptionist tells us this, we'll shoot Kyle. Basically? Just use common sense, Derek."

"Do you have any idea how fucked up you are?" Derek asked, hoping he didn't sound too helpless. He didn't want to give these... these _people_ any fodder.

"Plenty, actually," Mask said. "But that's irrelevant. Do you agree to the terms?"

"Do I have a choice?"

"No, I was just being polite."

"Then yeah, I agree to the 'terms,' and I want my gun back."

"Mmmm. I think I'll keep it. See you tomorrow at six, Derek. And please, no following me."

He started off down the dirt path, whistling. Derek stared in dismay as he left, and, without even thinking he yelled, "Wait!"

The man stopped and, with the air of one granting a large concession, turned to face Derek.

"What can I do you for?"

"Why Kyle?" Derek asked, his voice hoarse. "Why him?"

The masked man shrugged. "Need to know, Derek. And you don't need to know. Have a good one."

He walked away, and Derek got the feeling he wouldn't stop again.

Derek sat there for a little bit, his eyes shut tight.

A minute later and he found himself running in the direction Mask had went.

-------------

**1942**

John moved away from the door and back to the middle of the hospital hallway. Around him was an orderly chaos of activity. Surgeons going left and right along with their patients, trolleys with people laying on them, nurses... Not quite the unfamiliar sight, really. He'd been in enough hospitals to know what they looked like by now. Cameron stepped back from a door at the opposite wall and joined her charge in the middle, her head swiveling back and forth. John tucked his hands into his pockets and started down the hall with Cameron at his side. Between John's leather jacket and Cameron's usual prostitute get-up they kept getting unusual looks, and he figured they'd be getting questioned soon.

"I hate hospitals," John muttered.

Cameron said nothing. Time was she'd revel in chit-chat with all sorts of blunt questions and logical quandaries, but now she just stayed silent... like she didn't_ want_ to talk anymore. Like she was _moody... _Did they get moody? Strange thing to consider when you're dealing with a cyborg.

John kept talking anyway. Had to find some way of entertaining himself before they found Mike. _If _they found Mike. "Whenever I'm at a hospital, y'know, it means somebody's been hurt. That's why I don't like em'."

"Or they're dead," said Cameron, not looking at him.

"Especially dead. Exactly." He thought about Charley's wife, Michelle. He never really met her, but then found himself comforting his would-be father in a place just like this one. Because she died. Why?

Because of him. Again. It was a rotten, repetitive formula.

He was so glad Cromartie was gone now. And more than that, John was glad that it was _him_ who got rid of that monster. Perfect irony. The intractable machine that follows him through time ends up getting whacked by his own quarry. Not like John had done that much work, of course... Sarah had insisted that he wait in the confessional booth while they dealt with the Terminator, but... still. Cromartie would never kill _anyone,_ ever again. They made sure of that.

"Hospitals make you feel guilty," Cameron said and, like always, her voice held no inflection. Like describing some sort insect, or something. Like she didn't care. It felt weird. When she wanted to sound as if she meant something, she made you _know_ she meant it. And now? Now it sounded like she didn't mean... anything. Just stating a fact.

A few months ago, when his hair was long and his mind unburdened with the killing of another human being, he'd have said _that's not what I meant, _or something similar to that effect.

Instead he just said, "Yeah. They do." He sighed deeply. "Sorry I brought it up. Let's just get Mike and get outta this place."

Cameron said nothing. She seemed fixated on something behind them --maybe a conversation she was hearing-- and John thought _Fine, okay. _Why did she keep teasing him all the fucking time like that?

He perked his head up when they approached another door. **1945. **

Goddamnit, they should have gone the other way when they first came up here... Three minutes of tooling around and no sign of Michael. Who was to say he hadn't already been whisked away while they doddered around here discussing how much John hated hospitals?

Crap. No point in worrying about that. Experience made John assume the worst, but he made himself expect that they'd find Mike, otherwise his pessimism would become a self-fulfilling prophecy, and then where would they be? He cracked his neck and rubbed the back of his hair.

"Let's pick it up, Cam, c'mon."

He quickened his pace; the doors started to merely flash by now as numbers -- wrong numbers, which merely confirmed that they'd gone the wrong way after all.

A passing doctor peered at John and froze suddenly. John kept going. Maybe he wouldn't-

"Where're you off to, son?"

_Son? _John turned around, ignoring the doctor. He gawked. Cameron wasn't behind him as he expected; instead she was going off in the complete opposite direction, looking to round the corner and disappear. What- Where the living _fuck_ was she going?! What...

He looked at the doctor and shrugged. "Somewhere else." And then he started running.

The doors --and numbers-- flew by even faster. Doctors too, it was all a field of white and red crosses. Cameron kept moving away, like the goal of a never-ending staircase. He couldn't help glaring at her sashaying backside. She was malfunctioning again; she had to be. Probably thought she was a _nurse_, or some weird ass shit like that. They didn't havetime to fucking _deal_ with this.

John stumbled past a nurse and, while contemplating yelling to her, two men started to pass by with a patient stuck between their hefty frames. The patient had a black ear ring hooked onto his right ear and one of the men wore a _Giants_ football jersey, which was all John noticed before a thought struck him quite abruptly.

He ran forward a few more steps, staggered to a halt, and whirled around, thinking _no way, it can't be..._

The patient looked back at John, just sort of turning his head enough so that it wouldn't be conspicuous. Brown, messy hair. Lean face. A single brown eye, staring back at him. John gulped as the patient turned his head back again and kept going like they hadn't seen each other.

It was Michael. Holy shit. It was Mike with two cops (obviously plainclothes. Detectives?) Oh crap. Oh... _crap_. What about-? He turned slightly and just about screamed in frustration as Cameron rounded the corner and disappeared from sight. _WHERE the FUCK was she going?!_

Okay. Calm, _calm down._ Decision time, Johnny. You're the leader. Snappy decision, c'mon! Cameron or Mike? Cameron had the chance to prove more catastrophic in her antics, but he probably only had one chance to get Mike out of here. The last time Cameron went bonkers she nearly tore some poor girl's spine in half. Would this be as bad as that? Fucking hell.

Things had a weird habit of going crazy _fast_ whenever John got involved with something. Why didn't they just plan this shit better?

Okay. Grab Mike, then the two of you grab Cameron. Assuming you haven't been beaten to a bloody pulp by cops.

John turned around again and started to shadow the two cops and Michael. Mike was limping a bit. He was still fucked up, then. John blinked and ran a shaking hand over his eyes. His vision started to go all weird on him. That usually happened whenever he tried concentrating too hard. He got... cross eyed, or something, got headaches. He opened his eyes again and kept walking. The doctor he blew off earlier was heading in his direction, hands on his hips and a scowl on his face.

... Alright, he'd have surprise as an ally. Maybe he could take out one of the guards before the other realized what was going on, and by that time Mike would be helping him... if he was up to it, of course. Goddamnit, _why_ did Cameron- Stop. Don't fixate, just concentrate. Not too much. Fucking headache was making him blind.

Onwards towards... the doors? They seemed to be going that way. The doctor picked up speed and raised his hand to point at John. The cop on the right turned slightly to watch John in reaction to that, and Mike followed the man's movement. His eyes widened sharply and he stopped, causing both cops to turn and confront him.

"No stopping," one of them said, "C'mon."

Mike shrugged. "You haven't read me my rights."

"Don't gimme that shit, kid, I read you your fuckin' rights just a minute ago. No stalling. C'mon. Pick it up."

John walked up next to the cop on the right and pushed a band of sweat away from his eyes. He cast one last glance back towards where Cameron had ran off to. Still gone. Whew. Okay. You can't always depend on the defective robot, Johnny. He brought his hands out of his pockets and started to rub his chin. The little sprout of hair from this morning had gotten bigger.

Oddly enough he found himself wondering how he'd look sporting a goatee.

The doctor, now in proper chastising range, commenced chastising; "Son, I don't know who you think you are, but-"

John punched the man in the face, shattering his glasses. He cried out in a mixture of surprise and agony as blood splashed up from his nose. John's fist flared with pain and he used it to grab the doctor's collar. He grabbed his coat with his other hand, pulled, and shoved the doctor into the nearby cop, sending them both crashing to the floor. John shook his throbbing hand out and stepped over them, glaring at the still-standing detective.

People started screaming.

"WHAT THE FUCK-"

"Heh-help!" the doctor said, his voice shrill.

The other cop gibbered incoherently on the floor, and John paid him no mind. He lunged at the remaining cop. Mike stepped back, raised his leg slightly, and kicked the cop in the shin about a split second before John flew into him, dashing them both against the hallway wall.

"Waistband!" Mike said. "John, gun-"

John elbowed the cop in the stomach, flipped up his _Giants_ jersey, and yanked the pistol out of his jeans while keeping him pinned to the wall with his head. They were so close together that John couldn't hope to squeeze a shot off however, so he tossed the thing to Mike instead. It took John only a second to regret that as he heard the hammer get released. Mike had demonstrated in the past that he didn't give a shit _who_ he killed.

"JOEY, CALL FOR BACKUP!" the cop ordered. "Get offa me!" He brought his fist down on John's left shoulder, hard, and John reckoned he could feel the bone splintering a tad under the impact. Did he have fucking brass knuckles or-

"AAAHHHH" John yelled, the pain suddenly overwhelming him. It- it was like- huhhhh- He staggered back just a little from the embrace between him and the cop and he tried to kick the man in retaliation. His vision went bright red, making everything murky all over again, so his aim turned out to be shit. The man weaved to the right, crashing into a nearby pushcart filled with hospital supplies. Used syringes and a first-aid kit went flying all over with a resounding clatter of metal and plastic.

"Stu-stop," the detective rasped, reaching into his shirt and ripping out a badge; "L.A.P.-"

John made this odd growling noise deep in his throat and drove against the cop again, grabbing his face and slamming his head hard against the wall. It landed with a loud _smack_ and the cop just moaned horribly. He stumbled around, pushing the medical cart further along, sending more shit flying.

Everyone else in the hall stared in horror. The doctor guy kept crying for help, and he sounded really hurt. John was absently aware that Mike hadn't shot anybody yet, and wondered what was taking him so fucking long.

He took a slight back step from the stricken police officer, watching with a sort of morbid interest as the man staggered blindly toward the audience. After a little bit, John moved in a final time. The cop waved his arm around like a giant carrying a big stick; clumsily. John evaded the attack with ease.

His left arm felt loose, and every inch he moved it brought indescribable pain. He decided to just let it hang there and he wrapped his right arm over the man's neck and down to his lower back, stabilized him, lowered his head against the man's chest, and then he kneed him twice in the stomach, mustering as much force into the blows as he could. Every strike caused the cop to cough loudly, sending a chill down John's spine as he felt the two puffs of air on his neck.

The cop went limp against John's body, and he moved back a bit to let the man slump to the floor, unconscious. John shivered all over... and his armpits felt cold. Sort of wet. A feeling of foulness just... washed over him, like he'd been rolling in shit, or something. He wanted to sit down.

The rest of the world seemed to rush back into being all at once after that. Mike yelled at people to stay back and not get involved.

"-don't fucking care, ya 'good samaritan,' you stay away!"

The crowd just stared at the scene, powerless to do anything but watch. They'd formed a semi-circle of glares. They wanted to help the cops, obviously, since John and Mike were the "bad guys" here, but not while Mike was armed. The doctor John had nailed in the face scrambled toward the crowd on all fours. The other cop, the one Mike had been dealing with, laid flat on his stomach, looking scared out of his wits. Mike himself was hunched over into a combat stance, both hands wrapped around the grip of the pistol John had tossed him. He had it pointed rather suggestively at the assemblage ahead of them.

John looked down at the felled cop and checked his hands. On his right hand, wrapped around his knuckles, was a blackened band of metal. Christ, but he came _prepared_. John glanced back at the silent body. Yeah, lotta good it did him. Good enough to maybe dislocate his shoulder.

Mike poked John on the arm, making him jump slightly. The other teenager just sort of grinned, like they hadn't been... doing what they'd been doing just a second or two ago. "Hey."

"Come on."

They backed away from the crowd, but the audience just seemed to inch forward along with them, motivated by curiosity and surprised, muted anger. Mike was quick to yell at them. "Stay where you are, people or you'll end up just like those guys."

"Someone get help," somebody muttered. _Everyone_ was muttering. The crowd stopped, though, however grudgingly. From here John could see a lot of spattered blood on the floor, which made him feel even more sick to his stomach. He and Mike kept backing away in silence until they were around twenty feet or so from the congregation, and then they both turned and started to run down the corridor. John had to keep his pace pretty even, because of Mike's limp.

"You okay?" Mike said.

"I think I dislocated my shoulder." John prodded his left arm, taking a really good look at it. Looked unnatural. He winced. "Or fucked it up good, either way." Despite the pain, he had to smile in the end. "But hey, that worked!"

Mike stowed the gun. "Would have worked better if your fembot was around, but how-"

"She is."

"What?"

"She is. She ran off somewhere." He rolled his eyes, still smirking. "Don't ask. She got screwed up recently." John looked back and saw the hospital personnel dispersing in all different directions; none of which came towards him and Mike. Someone, somewhere, loudly asked just what the hell was going on.

The other teenager frowned at him.

John scratched his head. "What?"

"You, uh, cut your hair." He coughed.

"Oh, right. I was sick of tripping over myself 'cause I couldn't see past it. Hope that's okay." That wasn't really the reason; he'd been able to see just fine. In the end, he really didn't know why he did it. Not like it mattered.

Mike licked his lips, as if this development was troubling. "You okay?"

"Do you mean that... generally or right now?"

"Both."

John sighed. "Things have changed. I'll tell you later, but... uh. Let's find Cameron. She went this way..."

------------

_A minute or so earlier..._

Cameron glanced up at the door number two seconds after it closed behind the attendant.

**1906**

She burned the number into her memory and closed her eyes for a single second.

**initiate file search procedure. Scan memory files predating *(given sitref: TDE displacement.)* Use existing sitref: A. Young. Apply new sitref: Mercy Hospital, room 1906.**

**searching.**

Cameron walked two doors down, looked into the room marked **1908**, found it empty, and walked back to 1906. The search procedure finished as she stared through the glass window inset in the door. There was a woman inside, along with one attendant. She was being given food. The room had a solitary bed with the woman on it, and the window towards the outside offered a dreary vista of a cold day.

**search procedure complete. No referrals under current search parameters. Change parameters. (data may be insufficient)**

Yes. Data was insufficient. Cameron knew next to nothing about the woman she'd killed so... long ago. And how long ago was that? What was _she_ doing here? Had something gone wrong?

**unit malfunction; time-keeping orientation in full working order. time elapsed from termination sitref: A. Young: ... %^#%^ error. Unknown. Neural net intervention. (attach-note; referral *Tech-Com* You are being disobedient. Stay on task. attach file --**

She terminated the search procedure and the note file John's technicians had left. She glanced down at the door handle, turned it, opened the door, and entered the patient's room. The attendant and the woman peered up at her as she came in and quietly sat down on the nearby chair. The woman smiled at her, seeming pleased to have a visitor. Cameron smiled back.

"Aren't you cold in that?" the woman asked, cocking her head curiously. She looked friendly. She wasn't questioning Cameron's presence here. Cameron... appreciated that.

The attendant said nothing.

Cameron grinned sheepishly at her. "Oh, the cold doesn't bother me."

"Doesn't bother my husband either, or so he tells me." She shrugged, accepting some cereal and a carton of milk from the attendant. "Of course, _I_ don't see him here."

"Is he working?" Cameron asked. As she asked this, she grid-mapped the woman's form and started to peruse it for defects. A notation came up indicating the woman was pregnant, which Cameron summarily got rid of. She already knew that.

"I don't see what else he'd be doing. Probably still drawing or..."

"He's an architect?"

Claire Young cocked her head. "Good guess, uh...?"

"Cameron," Cameron said, the smile suddenly becoming brighter. The scan revealed nothing wrong with her; skin temperature was a tad high, indicating she was anxious. Cameron smiled again. People had an interesting quality of being able to mask their emotions. Claire appeared serene, despite whatever she may have been feeling in reality.

"Cameron. Nice name."

"What're you calling her? Or him?" She nodded at Claire's stomach, swelled as it was with the growing child within. Meanwhile, the attendant noisily exited the room with his cart of food, having said not a word. Cameron spared him a solitary glance.

**Assessing threat level. Parsing possible weaponized implements: two found. scanning. flashlight: ineffective. cart: unwieldy; ineffective. Threat level: 2 percent. Disregard. **

"Her," Claire said gently, looking down at herself, as if she could see the baby. This struck Cameron as unlikely. "Allison, I think."

Yes. Allison. Cameron nodded at this. "Is she almost..."

Claire shook her head. "Nah. I'm lying in bed right now because of some 'minor complications' that they're gonna work out. I... don't feel like anything's wrong, between you and me, but they didn't like my last sonograph scan."

"It's important to take all the proper precautions. Babies are no laughing matter."

The woman laughed. "Oh, god, I'm horrible. See, I don't think _you've_ ever been pregnant, Cameron, cause she's always _tickling_ me and making me laugh." She caressed her stomach fondly.

"No. I've never been pregnant."

"I'd recommend you hold off on that as long as you can," Claire said drily. "Tickling aside, there's a generous amount of unpleasantness too. So, what can I help you with, Cameron?"

Cameron shook her head. "Nothing. I just wanted to see if you were alright. I heard the doctors talking about you in the hallway and I... decided to see how you were doing."

Claire raised her eyebrows, probably impressed with this. "Good samaritan, eh? You don't find too much of those today." She sighed. "It's odd, but I appreciate it, as long as there are no strings attached."

"None."

"Good, I thought you might be some kind of Jehovah's Witness or something like that." She giggled. "Do you want to feel her?"

Kacy Cotton, the Connor's landlord, had asked her the same thing a month ago. Kacy's baby had seemed to be developing well and showed no abnormalities, although according to Sarah a few weeks later she'd had to go to the hospital for extra sonographing.

"Yes." She stood from the chair and approached the bed, poising her hand over Claire Young's stomach. She looked to her for confirmation.

Claire appeared bemused, but she nodded. Cameron placed her hand down and kept it there for a few seconds. The skin seemed to jump suddenly underneath her palm, and Claire laughed.

"Yeah, she says hi."

A joke. Cameron made herself laugh. "I hope you take good care of her." The proper flow of time would be incomplete if Cameron did not terminate Allison Young at the appropriate moment, thus compromising her eventual mission to protect John Connor. Complications in Allison's youth could disrupt that.

"I plan to," Claire said. "And thank you, it's nice to have a visitor, even if I don't know them."

Cameron stood away, staring out the window. She wondered if she even _desired_ that her progenitor do this thing. She didn't. Not quite. John taught her, today and in the future, that arbitrary murder was morally wrong. It was better to be empathetic instead.

But if Allison lived past... or died before the proper moment, what would happen? What was ultimately more important, the life of some minor, insignificant scout, or Cameron's status as John's protector?

She'd have to think on this.

"The world would be a better place with more people like you in it," Claire said musingly. She rolled her eyes. "Y'know, it's the strangest thing, Cameron, but I feel as if I recognize you from somewhere. Or your voice. Are you sure we haven't met?"

Footsteps outside, loud and frantic. Cameron peered out the door-window and saw John's face there, eyes widening as they met hers.

"I don't think so," Cameron said, moving towards the door. "I have to go."

"Okay... bye."

"When she's born, tell Allison I said 'hello'." And then she left.

------------

John cleared his throat. "Who am I?" He felt the urge to grab both of Cameron's arms and shake her, but his left arm was all fucked up, so he didn't. Mike, a few doors down, stared back and started to limp over.

Cameron answered John promptly; "John Connor, leader of the human resistance and last best hope of human kind."

He rubbed his forehead, sighing in relief. "Okay, at least you haven't gone crazy again." He pushed her aside and looked into the room. A pregnant lady waved amiably at him. John grimaced and waved back with his good hand, and then he walked back into the hall. "What the hell were you doing?"

Mike stopped and fell against the nearby wall, breathing in short bursts. "Hey, Cameron. How's tricks?"

She smiled at him. "Hello, Michael. I don't perform tricks."

Mike giggled, albeit wheezingly.

"Alright, can we get serious?" John said. "We've still got a few cops left to deal with in the building."

"Try a window," Mike said.

"We're too high up... We can get out the way we came in, though."

Mike blinked. "Uh, which is how?"

"Maintenance stairwell," Cameron explained.

"Isn't that locked?"

"Not anymore."

"Oh. Right." He grinned at the pair of them, looking a tad overwhelmed. "You have no idea how glad I am to see you two, y'know-"

"We can gush later," John said. "Let's just concentrate on getting outta here."

"Roger that," said Mike. He thumbed the safety off the pistol he was carrying. And then he frowned. "I thought I told you guys to come packing heat."

"We figured we wouldn't need it."

"I guess you also figured I'd be your gay bullet shield again?" Mike grinned, not seeming angry in the slightest.

John gawked. "D-wh-what?"

Mike handed him the pistol. "Here. You take it. I've sworn off of em'."

He stared at the pistol for a few seconds and stowed it in his jeans. "Okay, fine. Cameron, you take the front." He glanced at the two of them. "And we're not killing anybody."

She started walking, and John and Mike followed behind her. They rounded the corner and found the crowd of people had completely dispersed; not a soul left. The only person around was the cop John had knocked out, still sprawled on the floor, surrounded by a pool of blood. Everyone else was gone. Christ, were they evacuating the building?

"What if they're armed?" Cameron asked.

"You're a Terminator, you figure it out. I'm not shooting anybody unless I have to." He glanced back at Michael, still limping behind. His face kept contorting as he fought to breathe. "Dude, you okay?"

"I'm asifmatic, or, uh, asa..."

"Asthmatic?"

"Yeah. Side effect, I think. They say... well, said it's treatable."

John blinked and looked back to where he was walking. One fucking bullet, and then you can't breathe correctly for the rest of your life. Sorry fucking world. They all walked on in silence, the only sound being their feet hitting the floor. John peered into one of the rooms as they were passing and found it occupied with a bunch of people. They were talking hurriedly to each other, and none of them noticed the trio traipsing by.

"Sorry I couldn't help," said Cameron as they passed the cop.

"Y'know, I don't even give a shit," John said. "We'll figure out just what the he-"

There was a loud, explosive bark of sound behind them, followed a split second later by the sharp _spang_ of a bullet hitting the wall. John dived to the floor, ripping the pistol out of his jeans before it could dig painfully against his stomach. Cameron whipped around and started to stalk off towards where the bullet had come from, while Mike took cover behind the broken medical cart.

"_That_ was a warning shot," someone yelled. John took in a deep breath and stared down the hall. The thin cop they'd observed in the lobby a few minutes ago was standing there, looking at them from behind the barrel of a Beretta nine millimeter. "_ALEX, get your ass over here!_" He pointed the gun at Cameron as she approached. "Drop whatever weapons you're holding and put your hands above your head. And, uh, _you,_ you stop that."

Cameron said nothing. She didn't stop. John heard running footsteps just down the hall. Probably the fat cop. He gulped and glanced at Mike, still hiding behind the cart. John looked back down the hall, and then back at Mike. He planted the pistol down softly, and pushed it along the floor until it hit Mike's left shoe. The other teenager scooped it up quickly and hid it behind his back, looking oddly like a hitman about to find his mark.

John got up on his knees, ignoring the flaring pain in his left shoulder, and he raised his hands above his head.

The cop didn't notice. "_Listen girl, you stay right where you are._"

"Put the gun down," Cameron said flatly.

"_HALT, OR I _WILL_ SHOOT." _

The fatter cop came charging down the hall and pointed his gun at John's chest. John frowned, glanced up at him. Guy was sweating like he'd been in a gym for the past two hours. He yelled; "You need help?!"

"I-I may, hold on. Lady, you think I'm joking? I'm a fucking cop, you idiot! I-I'm authorized to use this if you don't cooperate."

Alex the cop was looking over at Cameron's death-march. John peered at the gun and considered grabbing it, but that had the chance to turn out really, really badly for him.

Mike slowly stood up and walked over to Alex's side, revealing the pistol. He pointed it against Alex's head and whispered, "Drop it."

_"Oh, for chrissake Alex!"_

"Oh, lord," Alex muttered. John relieved him of his pistol, and the fat man didn't bother resisting. John flipped the pistol over in his hands and bashed the bottom of the clip against Alex's head. He crumpled like a sack of hammers.

There came another sharp report from the thin cop's handgun. John yelped as a bullet flew past him and hit the floor. The thin cop opened up without any further reservation, yelling something above the explosive din of gunfire. The air around them turned into a whining, high-pitched rainfall of hot lead.

"_SHIT!"_ John dove to the floor again, rolled himself onto his side, and tried to raise the Beretta, using both of his hands. His left arm refused to cooperate, however, and instead it flared agonizingly with pain. John's vision went bright red again as he said, "Mike, shoot em'!"

"_No._" He took cover behind the medical cart again.

"Mike-"

Cameron suddenly broke out into a full-on run and rapidly closed the distance between herself and the cop. The man reeled visibly at her charge, but he stayed his ground. Cameron staggered twice as two of the bullets struck home, but she didn't stop. She ran off to the cop's flank and quickly shoved the man into the opposite wall hard enough to break a few bones, sending dust and chips of concrete flying in all directions. The handgun roared once more and clattered noisily to the floor as the cop screamed in pain.

"Alright, up," John whispered, "Get up." Fuck, how did they _not_ get hit in all that? "Get up, get up."

Mike stood up with him and grabbed onto John's shirt to support himself. "Sorry." He glanced at John's face. "Y-you okay?"

"What?"

"You-" there was another crashing sound as Cameron flung the cop around like a ragdoll. "-you look like you're about to pass out."

"It's just my arm, Mike, forget about it. I'm fine." He turned away from Michael, sniffing a little and gritting his teeth as he checked his arm. No matter how much he wanted to ignore it, the guy still plainly cared about him, and with their... history it was difficult to tell if he was just being a typical comrade or... affectionate. It made him damned uncomfortable either way, although...

Mm. He rolled up his jacket sleeve, his t-shirt, and checked his shoulder. It was throbbing steadily and the skin was freckled with angry blue bruises. Lovely. John rubbed his brows of sweat and rolled his sleeves back down. The bone was probably dislocated after all. It'd have to be set back in. And how much time had passed? Five minutes? How long before the muscles start to get all fucked up?

Cameron walked back over to them, two spots of blood glistening in her stomach and chest. Somewhat predictably, she didn't appear to notice. "He's been dealt with."

"Did you, uh..."

_"Someone call the police!"_ someone, somewhere yelled.

"He'll live," said Cameron.

John giggled, in spite of everything.

"What's so funny?"

"Nothing, it's just that I've heard _that_ before." He smiled at her, and she and Mike _both_ looked confused. Bah. "Thanks, Cameron."

She cocked her head, facing him. "For what?"

"For _helping_. Jesus, forget it. Let's ditch this place."

They resumed their escape --running this time-- and John tapped Mike on the shoulder as they ran. The teenager looked back at him, cocking an eyebrow.

"And you, Mike. You're gonna tell us what this is about when we're outta here."

Mike nodded. "You're not gonna like it, but okay, deal."

"Can't wait."

(A/N: I'm thinking somebody gets screwed (sexually, that is) pretty soon. Not a sure thing, but fair warning.)


	5. We Still Own This Planet

**No Trespassing**

Chapter Five: We Still Own This Planet

_Optimism is what kills you. _

Riley heard those words almost every day, in one form or another. Optimism kills. Never be optimistic. Optimism is the number one killer of human beings; not robots, contrary to popular belief. After that one Riley asked what "contrary" meant. Jesse bought her a dictionary in reaction to that and demanded that she study it all night.

She did.

_Nobody's your friend, least of all me. Don't trust anyone. Except me. You should trust me precisely because I am *not* your friend. _

Riley stepped onto the porch, cleared her throat, dusted herself off, swiped a hand over her hair, and poised her hand over the door. She smiled to herself, despite the memory. Not a nice smile, really. If you ever wanted to find the most unforgiving tight-ass that ever existed, you couldn't do any better than Jesse Flores... though she could be a very, very kind woman when she wanted to be. She knew what was right, usually, and whenever she spoke, Riley listened.

And she was _right. _Everything that could have possibly screwed up today went and screwed up; John not being able to leave, John refusing to answer her calls, and when she came over she found his _house_ as empty as a bombed out building. She just couldn't find the guy.

Jesse talked about this before hand. _You're expecting this to just be business as usual, Riley. You're gonna call him, bring him out for a few hours --without _her_-- and you're both gonna have a little fun. That's the plan. But I'm warning you, and listen: Expect it to go sour. She's always watching._

Before this day, Riley had called John about... maybe ten, fifteen times in the past two months and they had as many outings together. How could this day in particular be any different? She'd expected things to go smoothly, and then Jesse turned out to be right. Again.

She had to find John. Bring him somewhere. Alone with her, where he'd be safe. If he was out there today, he was in trouble. She wanted desperately to call Jesse and ask what she could do, but... But Jesse just hated that. And Riley hated that. It made her look pathetic, and she wanted to be strong for her. Independent. So she never called. Never asked for help.

She put on a more acceptable smile and knocked on the door. Twice. Never be optimistic. You've got to learn that, Riley. You've got to.

She stood back from the door and crossed her arms, tilting her head slightly to the side. Christ, what would happen if... the plan went through and John _was_ there when it happened? He'd try to protect Cameron. Maybe. It didn't matter. He'd die either way, and Riley refused to let that happen.

His destiny aside, Riley could hardly visualize that happening. Maybe a few weeks ago she could have, but not now. Not when she knew what he looked like, what hearing him laugh was like, what his smile looked like, what...

Kissing him, being with him was like. This would be so much easier if she just approached this like Jesse did. Cold, business-like. Badass. But she couldn't, she just couldn't. She loved the guy. If he died, she'd have nothing left to live for, both in terms of the entire human race and her own life. She existed here to be with him. Literally. Actually. The responsibility threatened to tear her apart on the inside. She wanted to just tell him the truth, lay it all out, but she wasn't allowed. Too much at stake.

She had to keep acting. Maybe with Cameron out of the picture she'd be able to tell him, and they could still... be together. Maybe.

Riley put the smile back up as she heard footsteps behind the door. Perky face, Riley, perky face...

The door opened, and Kacy Cotton, the Connor's landlord, grinned at her. "Oh, Riley, how are you!"

"I'm great, Mrs. Cotton, how are ya?" She spread her arms and hugged the woman, who eagerly returned it. Around here she was considered part of the family, no matter how much everyone in that house despised her, excepting John, of course.

"Still pregnant," Kacy said. She wore a huge t-shirt over her stomach, the kind they made for this sort of thing. It had a happy face on it and the word _Mommy_ underneath.

Riley chuckled and stepped back. "Yeah, John and I started a betting pool..."

"On when I'd give _birth?_" Kacy asked, her mouth going wide open. Mostly mock surprise with a tinge of legitimate mortification, Riley guessed. "I'll only tolerate it if I get half the winnings."

"I'm betting a piece of lint and a few pennies, and I'm _not_ really sure about John yet..."

"That better be the best damn piece of lint I ever seen."

"I'll give it to you if I can find it."

"Yeah, after this little guy vacates the premises."

They both guffawed, although in truth... Kacy's whole attitude towards pregnancy mystified Riley. Back where... she came from, pregnancies were a really, really important part of life. Those women were growing the next generation of soldiers, the people who'd try and rebuild the Earth after they won. It just _wasn't_ something you laughed about. Kacy either admonished herself or cracked jokes about the child.

Really weird.

"Anyway, I'm about to go to the supermarket, so I'm afraid I can't help you with much, Riley. Sorry."

Riley frowned. "Oh, can't talk?"

"Unfortunately. They've got a sale on Oreos I can't miss." She mocked putting two fingers in her mouth. "Used to hate those things and now I can't get enough of them, unbelievable."

"Well, I just wanted to ask if you'd seen John around."

"He and Cameron left a while ago, watched em' leave."

Riley nodded back towards the Connor home. "I, uh... left something in his house the other day, Kacy, and..."

"You want it back," said Kacy, smiling knowingly.

"It's just a cellphone." White lie never hurt anybody. Hopefully Kacy wouldn't ask John about it. "I really need it back, you _know_ how girls are about cellphones." She bopped her whole body a little, feigning typical teenage anxiety.

"I remember when they were about as big as a ruler. Can't believe how they got so small. Anyway, I have a spare key."

"Oh, great!"

"Just don't touch anything in there or I won't hear the end of it, hold on."

Kacy disappeared past the door frame and moved off to... someplace else. Didn't really matter. Riley took a moment to wipe a hand over her forehead. She half expected that not to work...

"Damn thing's a bitch to find..." Kacy muttered. Close to the door, probably.

"Thank you for doing this, Kacy!" Riley yelled. She turned around to look at the street. Nothing. A car drove past; black, four-wheel drive. Nothing she recognized. She looked back inside Cotton's house, her smile having vaporized.

"Ha, found it." Kacy said from inside. Riley heard a chair move somewhere in the... kitchen, probably, and then footsteps coming back. Kacy appeared after a moment and handed the brass key to her. "And don't you mention it."

The smile jumped back into existence. "I'll leave it on the porch when I'm done in there, thank you, thank you." She started off from the porch.

Kacy shook her head and grinned. "My pleasure, Riley girl. Say 'hi' to John for me."

"I will, bye."

"Bye."

Riley turned and walked off the porch, tucking the key in her left pocket. Kacy's phone started to ring inside her house, and Riley heard a frenzy of footsteps. She smirked to herself, for real this time. That took care of that. Jeez, this was easier than she'd thought it'd be. If the rest of the day turned out like this she'd be a happy girl indeed.

She went off the front lawn and towards the Connor home, looking both ways as she crossed the street. Now to just get in there, find out what she needed, get out, and find John. Couldn't be simpler.

_Aha,_ Riley thought, _that's being optimistic now. Better quit that while thing's _are_ looking good._

--------

John, Cameron and Mike were about half-way down the maintenance stairwell when the detective John failed to beat up and Mike failed to shoot five minutes earlier stepped in front of them, holding a pistol aloft. He looked terribly smug as he aimed the thing directly at John's chest.

"You snot-nosed brats should have taken care of me when you had the chance," he said, cocking the hammer. "Hands up, all of you. Drop the gun."

"What're you, a movie villain?" John asked. He kept his pistol pointed down against his leg.

The detective blinked and gave a tiny shake of his head. He wore this seriously tacky stripped sweatshirt with a turtleneck and he also had a pair of fancy khaki jeans on. He kept fidgeting, and John decided that he couldn't have looked less like an undercover cop if he tried. "Duh-what? Shut up, shut up, hands up."

Mike and Cameron looked at each other, frowning. Mike raised his palms a little in the cop's direction, getting a gruff, pleased grunt out of the man. "There, do what he's doing. C'mon."

"_You should have killed me when you had the chance,_" John said, imitating the cop's voice and tossing in a little fake Brooklyn accent for good measure. Not that he really knew what a guy from Brooklyn would sound like. He was too busy sweating to care, though, so he didn't.

"Oh, shut up, it was just an expression!"

"Still sounded lame."

"_Put your hands up, you little shit."_

"John?" Cameron said.

"Shh," Mike whispered.

The cyborg glanced at him, confused. Mike just smirked. They both stepped down together.

"You have no idea who you're dealing with..." John said, taking a step down. "Do you?" He shot a questioning look at the man. In reality he could barely keep himself from giggling at the silliness of it all, despite the really _fucking_ clear and present danger. Like one of those times where you just don't feel like you can be killed, where everything runs according to what _you_ say and do. Times like this were when John _believed_ he could lead.

The cop blinked and perused his adversaries. "I see... uh, where'd she come from, anyway?"

"The future," John admitted breezily.

"Ah. And this happened recently, did it?"

"No, nine years ago."

"The jury'll get a laugh outta that one." He drew a hand up to adjust his turtleneck and chuckled nastily at his wit. And then he sobered, setting a harsh glare on John. "I'm not gonna ask you again. There's more police coming, so you- _all_ of you- you'd better just-"

"We took out three of your buddies." John said, ignoring the threat. He stepped closer to the landing. "I mean, think about it. _They_ had the advantage in that situation, too." He looked down at the cop's gun. "And more firepower."

The cop gulped and coughed. "So?"

"So? _So?_" John spread his hands, smirking coldly. "Hate to break it to you, but your chances aren't that good."

The cop only looked at John now, seeming to forget the other two existed. Cameron seized on this by starting to advance towards him, but the detective picked up on this easily, quickly whirling around and jabbing the weapon in her direction. "Don't move-"

John lunged and smashed his forehead into the guy's right arm. From a distance it might have just looked like a light bump, but in truth it he hit him hard enough to bowl the guy over like a pin. The guy pointed the pistol upwards and blasted a bullet into the ceiling, making the whole stairwell ring with the sound of the gunshot. He staggered and fell flat on his ass, his pistol flipping out of his hands and going over the bannister. Pain exploded in John's head; reaction to the blow... mixture of lightheadedness and _loud_ throbbing. He blinked rapidly and fell back against the wall, dazed.

"_Oh hell-"_ the cop blabbered. Cameron wasted no time moving in for the kill; she charged ahead of Mike and laid down a strong kick to the man's head, sending him sprawling onto the concrete landing, unconscious. She straightened out and turned slightly to watch Mike scramble forward and help John stand.

"You okay? Hey-"

"Fine, fine-" John waved him off, standing on his own. Shakily. "I'm fine. Cameron, I was handling that, you didn't have to..." He paused, wincing again in pain.

Cameron didn't respond, merely giving him a look as if to say _Are you bullshitting me?_

"That was pretty neat to watch," Mike said, sounding like an awed school kid all over again. John guessed that, sometimes, it really didn't _ever_ occur to Mike that he was in the presence of John Connor. And times like this brought reality back in a pretty cool way. He wondered if _the_ John ever pulled ballsy moves like that.

Well. Ballsy was one way of putting it. You could also call it fantastically stupid... He felt especially sore about the whole thing, especially when Cameron apparently decided he wouldn't be fricken' _able_ to pull it off. He had that shit fucking handled, she didn't have to-

Sirens suddenly started to sound in the distance, coming on fast. The trio abruptly looked at the nearby wall, as if it were transparent and they could see the patrol cruisers even now. Guy hadn't been lying about those extra police coming in.

"We have to go," Cameron said.

"Yeah."

-------

They reached the Ram in good time after that, dodging only a few curious onlookers and most of the police cruisers were pulling up in front of the main entrance anyway, so they didn't encounter any more problems.

Except for the obvious one: "Who drives?" John asked.

"I thought you would," Cameron said.

"My, uh, arm's all fucked up."

"When did this happen?" Christ, she sounded like a teacher. Or, more accurately, his mother.

Mike cleared his throat. "One of the cops had a knuckle duster and he hit him right in the shoulder."

"I can tell her myself, dude," John said, glaring at Mike.

"Just-"

A cop car sped by, sirens roaring. It swerved into the ER parking circle and a bunch of cops ran out of it, holding pistols.

"We're leaving," said John. "Now. Cameron, you drive. Mike, get in the front seat with her."

Mike shook his head obstinately. "Why does it matter where I sit-"

"_Just do it, Mike!_"

"Alright, alright!"

"God!"

John jerked the back row door open and scrambled in, making sure not to favor his bad arm as he did it. The thing hung from his torso like a dead branch, and every inch it moved brought a sharp stab of pain into his chest. He could manage it, though. Easily. Just had to fix it somehow. Cameron stepped into the driver's seat and adjusted the rear view mirror. John smirked at that, half expecting her to check the glove compartment for a set of keys next. The vehicle started up with a light _thrum. _

"Let's get out before everyone else gets the same idea," John said. "C'mon Mike!"

Mike climbed into the passenger side and strapped on his seatbelt. "Step on it."

Cameron narrowed her eyes and glanced to the side, looking confused. "Step on what?"

"Just start the car!"

"Oh." She did. They reversed out of the spot and glided into the parking lot. John turned himself around in his seat and stared out the backside window, searching for cop cars, or anything else. A pair of cruisers headed off to the front entrance and disappeared from sight.

"Go out the back entrance," John said. "Or the ER. Christ, they're getting a lot of guys in here."

"Gun battles in hospitals generally attract police attention," Cameron said. A few more cars were booking it in the opposite direction.

John looked back at her. "You're being sarcastic, right?"

"No. Why would I?"

"Just checking." He settled in his seat and frowned at his arm again. "I think we're gonna be fine. They haven't noticed us."

Silence for a minute as Cameron drove on, weaving past an ambulance and finally rolling out of the parking lot and into flowing L.A. traffic. The sounds of the city started to hum all around the car, and at once it felt as if a giant weight had been lifted from John's chest. He sighed in relief, blowing lightly up onto his forehead. "Thank god..."

"No kidding," said Mike. "Thanks, guys. Thank you."

"Dunno why you bother," John said. "That was a fuck-up."

"What?"

"That whole thing."

"You... got me out and none of us died," Mike said, smiling nervously. "I mean, can't get better than that."

"Yeah, but we had to fight our way through the whole fucking place, I-I mean..." He sighed again, this time in exasperation. "It's my fault. I didn't plan this well at all... y'know, we just winged it. Hell, there _was_ no planning."

Mike was quiet for a little bit as John fumed, and Cameron, predictably, kept her eyes on the road and her mouth shut.

John didn't care if Mike was right or not. Sure, no one got _killed_ but John nearly broke his arm and had to pummel three different groups of people in order to get what they came here for. If they'd been a little _quicker,_ a little more _disciplined_ and not rely so much on _luck_ John knew they could have been out of there in five minutes flat with no one the wiser. Instead they shot an entire Chinese army's worth of ammunition and had cops arriving in patrol cruisers. It was his fucking fault for not being the leader and just planning it meticulously with Cameron. He acted like such a _kid_ about this, just hoping it would work...

And it did. But sometimes success just didn't cut it. They were still gonna appear in the evening news. The more their exploits were seen by the police the less time they had before the police came knocking. Simple as that.

"It could have gone south any number of ways, and almost did," John said. "And what about you?!" He pushed Cameron's seat. "What the _fuck_ were you doing?"

Cameron turned the wheel to the side, checking out the window for traffic. Odd how normal she looked sometimes. "I was looking for Michael."

"Did a bang-up job, too," Mike said. He laughed.

John glared at his back. "Why're you being so fucking chill about this?"

"'Chill'?"

"Slang," Cameron said.

"Yeah, I know it's slang, but-"

"_Look forget the slang,_" John said. "The point is..." He faltered. What were they talking about? Cameron...? Oh, right. "The point is that you guys aren't being serious about this at all. We almost screwed that up in a bunch of ways and it's like you don't even care."

Mike started to gently press his hand against his head. "John. We _do_ care. We're just trying to... lighten the mood, y'know?" He quickly looked at Cameron. "Well, _I_ am, anyway." He chuckled.

"I'm always serious," Cameron added.

"No you're not." God, she annoyed him. And Mike acted just as bad, cracking jokes and shit. Had he gotten soft after two months? He didn't always used to be like this... Did he? Damnit.

"Ah," Mike said, playing the devil's advocate, "The point is-"

"Shut up. Just shut up, okay?"

Mike shut up. He immediately glanced out the window and didn't look back.

"Would you just listen to me?" John yelled, suddenly exploding at the two of them. Inside, deep inside, he knew he was acting stupid, but at this point he couldn't just _bow down_, right? Besides, he had a point and they just refused to listen to it. "I'd rather we all agreed to _learn_ from this than joke about it."

"_I_ need to learn from it," he mumbled quietly, before anyone else could say it for him. Not that he expected them to. God, he felt mad.

Cameron didn't respond. Maybe she rolled her eyes. Mike, too, said nothing. Christ, they acted like they were in a league, or something. They kept looking at each other like they wanted to talk.

"Y'know what, forget it. Drop it. We screwed up and that's all there is to it."

"John-" Michael started.

"_Forget it._"

------------

_"You've reached the Baum residence, 818-555-2407._" The man speaking paused for a second, probably reading from something. It sounded vaguely like Derek Reese, but one thing Riley had noticed was that voices sounded different on phones. She didn't know why; it just worked like that. It definitely wasn't John, though, which led her to default on Derek. _"Uh, please leave a message when it beeps. So, uh... bye."_

An automated voice said; _"You have two messages."_

Riley looked around the kitchen a second time. The place was sparsely decorated, unlike the foster house kitchen, which practically overflowed with personal touches; things like pinned-up test papers, some odd brass fish decorations on the wall, smiley faces...

The Connor kitchen had nothing. Not a stone misplaced, no disorganization. For a family on the run, they sure were anal about cleanliness. Riley smirked at that thought. How easily her standards had risen... she hailed from a future where cleanliness was as foreign a word as "safe," and here, just a few months "later" she was comparing houses. Unbelievable, what vanity does to you.

She walked over and touched her fingers to the refrigerator handle. Nothing hung there except contact information; John's cell, Sarah Connor's, Cameron's. Riley didn't even glance at them; she didn't need Sarah, had no reason to call Cameron, and knew John wasn't responding to his calls, although another try wouldn't hurt. She'd get to that in a minute. They probably cleaned the fridge of decoration; last time she was here with John --when that Terminator came looking for him-- the thing had had plenty of pictures; none of which were of the Connors, but still.

Riley went back over to the phone and tapped a button marked with a right-side arrow.

_"Message one: _I suppose you're all out, since I told Derek to answer the phone whenever I called. Nice to see you listened so well."

John's mother.

"Anyway, I'm gonna be at this thing until eight. Don't ask why, long story, and you wouldn't wanna hear it anyway, I'm sure. If this is John listening... I love you, honey. If this is Cameron, erm... hi. And Derek? Screw you. Bye!"

_Click._

_Jeez, she's even more frigid in private,_ Riley thought. She hadn't even thought that was possible. Well, at least she'd be out for most of the day. That'd give plenty of time for what... had to be done. Maybe. Possibly. God, don't be optimistic. Never be optimistic, Riley.

She pressed the button again and absently adjusted her hair. Always felt like someone might be judging her, or something. Even if she didn't know it. Staying with Jesse for months on end could do that to you. There were days when Jesse didn't give a shit and days where she didn't stop obsessing over Riley's appearance.

Riley hated that when she actually _lived_ with Jesse, but in hindsight it definitely beat staying at the foster home and having no one give a shit.

"_Message two:_ Hello? Hello?"

Riley frowned, turning her head a little. She didn't recognize this guy; sounded almost John's age. School?

"John, Cameron? Someone pick up. It's, uh... it's Mike, listen, I'm... aw, shit, cellphone. Okay okay, I'll call that, bye."

Mike, however long ago he called, hung up.

"Nice meeting you too," Riley said to an empty room, reaching into her left pant pocket. Okay, so the answering machine proved useless besides establishing that Sarah wouldn't be around to interfere with anything. Great. That still didn't solve where John had ran off to. Riley pulled out her cellphone and thumbed in John's cell number within two seconds. When they first came here Riley had stared at one of these things for hours, not knowing how to handle it, but today? Christ, it felt like she belonged in this place sometimes.

She planted the thing on her ear and waited. It felt weird, just doing this all business-like. She'd gotten used to just calling John for the hell of it.

She definitely knew which occasion she preferred.

----------

Things got pretty quiet after John's tantrum. Mike wanted --desperately-- to talk to Cameron, see what the deal with him was, but he knew better than to talk _openly_ about a guy with him sitting only two feet away. No matter how much he wanted to.

He gulped a bit and looked over at the cyborg. Cameron bounced in her seat a little and leaned toward the window, eying a car as it passed by. Then, like she could feel herself being watched she turned to look at Michael. _Something you need? _Mike stared evenly at her. _No. Nothing. _She turned back to the road. Mike released the breath he'd been holding in and glanced back at John, who just sat there and stared at the ceiling of the car. Deaf and blind to everything, lost in thought. Par for the course.

These people, his friends... he barely recognized them anymore. Alright, _that_ was stretching it, but still. When they first met John would have been _thrilled_ to get out of that the way they did. Absolutely thrilled. Now he sat there fuming, acting like the end of the world had come.

Still four years off, after all.

What happened? Just what the _hell_ happened since they last met? Cameron possessed wit and John developed a perfectionist streak. Well, more of a perfectionist streak than usual. At least today he wouldn't be running away from home any time soon... That had to be a good thing, right?

Mike didn't know. God, he was probably just overreacting, but with people like John, people like Cameron, you couldn't be sure. They probably felt the same way about _him._

He stared at the city as it passed by, towering, vibrant and bright. He'd never get used to that. Never.

_What a terrible way to be friends,_ he thought. And what did _he_ know about friendship? Fuck. Don't be self-depracating, Mike. There's no point in doing that...

Bah. Chin up. At least you're okay. And hey, maybe John's changed for the better. Maybe this is just one of his bad days, eh? Don't fixate on the little things, instead just think about what's coming up. Maybe he's changed for the better.

Mike blinked a few times, like he couldn't believe he was even _thinking_ about this crap. _No. _No. _Do NOT get your hopes up there. Just concentrate on the friendliness, and not... not what _you_ want. _

Felt hard. But he'd live, right? Sure...

"Y'know, they gave me a laptop in that place," Mike said.

John dipped his head down and stared at him through the rearview mirror. "Great. Good on you, Mikey."

_That a pet name? _Holy fuck Mike, stop it. "Never mind," he said. "You okay?"

"Laptop?"

Okay then. "Yeah, but it's okay, forget about it."

"No, I'd love to hear it."

Mike looked back at him. "It's cool. Really."

Cameron visibly scratched her neck.

"No, you've got my interest now, Mikey."

"Stop calling me that."

"You don't like it?"

"N-no. Not really." He did like it. He just didn't like the way John used it.

"Oh, well, sorry then." John smirked.

"Sorry I opened my mouth," Mike said, looking back at the front.

John shut his eyes. "Tell me about the laptop. Is it important?"

"No."

"Aha."

"Well, sort of."

"Really."

"But it can wait, I can see you're not in the mood to talk."

"No. I am. Tell me about it, Mikey."

He found himself staring at the dashboard. The world sort of disappeared for him for a few seconds, the only sound being the car running. What... were they...

Oh, right. Computers. He felt very helpless all of a sudden, like the world no longer made any sense, like walls were closing in on him and the only colors he could see were black and white. He could handle death and fighting. He could _not _handle this passive aggressive bullshit. It just felt too weird to him.

"I was just gonna say, I mean, I got this laptop at the hospital... they lent it to me and y'know, you'd talked about uh, the Smiths and stuff when we were running around and shit, so I, uh, I looked into them and I managed to find a few songs and... I... uh, I liked them." He smiled at the memory, warming to the conversation. This wasn't so bad. "Really liked them, actually. I mean, there's shit like it in the future but... it's not as... refined? Yeah, not as refined. I lu-liked that one you played for me a while ago, that one called..."

He blinked and looked back at John, who stared daggers at him. Mike pushed a lump down from his throat and sighed. "Anyway." He felt like throwing up.

"You mentioned something important?" John asked. He winced a tad; his arm, probably.

"Yeah," Mike mumbled. Pretty important, not that he actually wanted to _tell_ John anymore...

"Skip to that part."

"It's... what I called you about this morning."

"Oh, good," John said, leaning forward now, interest piqued. And Mike wanted to scream.

"We're almost home," Cameron said suddenly.

"Okay," said John. He looked back at Mike just as his phone started to rumble in his pocket, bringing him to look down at it in mild surprise. He quickly fished it out of his jeans, hit the call button and listened. Oh, thank _god._ Mike planted a hand on his cheek and felt it burning. _So fucking stupid, so so stupid. _Do you have absolutely no sense of timing?! You _knew_ he was pissed, why did you even bother trying to make conversation?! Do you get _off_ on this shit, or something?

Mike frowned, glancing at Cameron. She looked as if she'd tasted something sour, an expression he never expected to see on a Terminator's face. Although, admittedly, he never expected to see much _anything_ on a Terminator's face.

"Hey," John said, his expression changing from that mean-spirited one he had to one of... he looked positively euphoric. "Yeah, yeah, good." He chuckled drily, and then he sobered. "You came over? When?"

Mike mouthed _mom?_ to Cameron, and she shook her head.

"Yeah, yeah, something came up... unexpectedly." He eyed Mike and then back down at the floor. "Uh, we're just driving around. Where're you?" He waited a sec, bouncing his leg up and down excitedly. "Sorry, guess you missed us. Better luck next time..." He abruptly looked down at his clothes. "Jacket and that grey shirt you love so much, heh. You? Huh. That's pretty loose for this weather." Silence for a few seconds, and then he bit his knuckles, concealing a grin. "You're such a fucking tease, Jesus... No _I'm_ not, you are." He laughed. "Do I? I was just running around a lot, that's probably why..." He looked back up to the front seat again. "I can't say, not now. Sorry. Riley..."

Mike blinked again.

"I'll call you back. Yeah... bye. Uh... you too, yeah. Bye." He hung up and dropped the cellphone down to seat, looking pretty deep in thought.

"How is Riley?" Cameron asked.

"She's good, thanks for asking." He didn't sound thankful at all; he looked incredibly pissed at Cameron for even asking, actually. "Uh, friend of mine, Mike. That's-"

Cameron leaned to Mike; "Friends don't make love in the back of cars. She isn't just a friend."

"D-whu-what?" John gibbered, looking like he'd swallowed a gerbil.

"They-"

"Well, most friends don't," she amended to herself.

_"Cameron!"_

"Yes?" She turned back to him, genuinely confused. Mike had to suppress a sudden, insane giggle at the absurdity of this shit. And at the same time... _Is she telling the truth? Oh god. _

"What is WRONG with you?"

"Wait, hold on!" Mike said. He found himself looking into the backseat at John; the other kid sent an appealing look to him, his mouth slack. Shocked. Just shocked. "Guys-"

"We did _not-_"

"Shut the hell up!" Mike yelled. People were supposed to shut up and look at you if you did that. He saw it on TV once, although he doubted-

They _did_ look at him, but they didn't shut up. John in particular kept babbling his mouth off. "Mike, I _swear_ she's lying-"

Oh god.

"Not lying, merely inferring."

"Why would you even _say_ something like that?!"

Mike spoke up, waving his hands around to get their attention. He did. He seized on it.

"T-th-there's a Terminator operating in downtown L.A. He's been doing it for two weeks now and he's allied himself with this street gang. They've killed two people in at least four different robberies, two of which were at banks." He paused quickly to gather his memory, licking his lips. Nervous. Real nervous. At the same time, though, he was digging this a lot. John and Cameron were as quiet as stones. "Um, the L.A.P.D. can't find out anything on these guys --yet-- but if they do they're gonna get a nasty surprise. The T, he's, I dunno, he's been operating without any skin, that's how it seems from the photos I've managed to find. Y'know, he's wearing clothes all over his body, one of those mask type things... Uh..." He scratched his head. "Found this on the laptop. I... I figured you'd want to know."

John sat back in his seat. Slowly. His eyes looked dark and unfocused.

Cameron's expression barely changed. She kept driving, although the wheels seemed to skid very slightly at one point in the silence that overtook the car for at least a minute.

All Mike could think was _Anything but them arguing over his fucking girlfriend. _He sympathized so much with Cameron there, and he didn't even know the woman yet. He felt... horribly, horribly constricted all of a sudden, and he couldn't take that, he just couldn't. So he decided to drop that little a-bomb on them.

"How do you know this?" Cameron eventually asked, seeming, grudgingly, to come to business. Like John's girlfriend was more important.

"I thought he might be a machine when I first heard about it, so I followed the story for a few weeks, and I hacked into the L.A.P.D. for good measure. They put up a report yesterday saying a security guard shot him twice in the chest with no visible effect. That's when I realized..." He trailed off.

John spoke up. "What... uh," he cleared a hitch in his throat. "What happened to the guard?"

"What? Uh. He got killed." What kind of question was _that?_ "I, uh... I knew... I mean, I thought he might be that Terminator we had to dodge two months ago, the one at the police station?"

"The one with those commandos, yeah," John said, shuddering at the memory. "He was involved with Sacramento Robotics... But mom and Derek took care of those guys..."

"Well, I dunno about you, but it looks as if he's still out there getting money... If he's still hunting for Skynet, that money might be used to... I dunno. There's more to this than you might think."

"Like what?" said John.

"Well. It's probably unrelated, but a bunch of high-tech firms --NexStep, Morris Enterprises, ZeiraCorp, Cyber Research Systems, which is a military organization-- they all unveiled these top-secret AI projects last week and they've started raising money..."

"What's Cyber Research Systems?" This seemed to stir another memory in John.

Mike shrugged. "Uh, that's part of the military, they're working on weaponized AI applications." He oddly found himself smirking as he talked. He'd had to learn a bunch of stupid techno-jargon over the last few weeks to understand half of this shit, and he liked having the chance to finally use it in a conversation. "I think they're built off the assets of an old company that went bankrupt in 1995."

"Cyberdyne," John and Cameron said.

"Oh, right." Mike blinked. How'd they...? "Uh, anyway, they can barely get money as it stands and they have no open projects running besides this one. They have to rely on taxpayer dollars, y'know. If I had to bet I'd say our Terminator friend isn't working with those guys. Besides, they're not even based in L.A."

"Hurm," John muttered. "Go on."

"Right, if we had to worry about any of em', I'd have to say it's NexStep. They received almost all of SRL's liquidated assets when your mom blew them away. Maybe the Terminator just switched companies. I'd definitely make sense, right?"

"Yeah..." John got this sudden glint in his eye, like he was thinking a mile a minute.

Mike looked at Cameron. "Whad'ya think?"

"All I need is his description and whereabouts." She sounded terribly resigned, like this was nothing more than a chore. Maybe it was, to her at least.

"Hey! Hey, _no,_" John said. "You're not gonna rambo any more of your _buddies_ to death, Cam. That can only work for so long."

"It's worked so far."

"_Hey_. No, we do this smart. We... we do it right." He leaned forward, gesturing with his good hand. Despite the... unpleasantness they'd just gone through, Mike smiled at the sight. Just add the scar and you've got Him. "Mike, can you find those reports on the fly? Everything you talked about?"

"Oh, sure, although-"

"Great," John cut in. He was on a roll. Nothing else mattered. "We'll bring my laptop. We're going home. How far, Cam?"

"Almost there."

"Good."

"What're you planning?" Mike asked.

John smiled. "We can't just let these fuckers walk around like they rule this world already, killing whoever they want, right? No." He shook his head empathetically. "No. We won't. We shouldn't be afraid to fight back at them. Today, at least, we still own this planet, so we're gonna find that machine with the information you found; we're gonna find it and we're gonna blow it's fucking head off. Today."

-------------

_No more reason to stay here, Riley. _

She pushed John's door open and walked in. Gingerly, like he was just sitting there, waiting for her. She could have stampeded in and no one would make a peep, but she wouldn't do that in his fricken' _house. _

_So why're you here?_

Who knew? Why did she do _anything?_ For a greater purpose or for herself? _That_ was the question, and it was one she still had trouble figuring out.

John's Lego robot still sat on his bedside. Smiling, Riley crouched near it and took the thing in her hands, turning it over and over again, examining it. He'd made some additions; the arms could move now, they didn't just hang there, stiff anymore. Some kind of pulleys hung at the shoulders, bright red and bright blue, respectively.

Jesse had liked that one... A protective Lego robot. She thought it clever as hell.

And, weirdly enough, Riley hadn't intended _anything_ when she built it. She just thought it would be funny. She had an odd sense of humor sometimes, and John called it ironic.

Riley took a note out of her pocket, along with a pen, and quietly scribbled something on it. Finishing quickly she rolled the tiny post-it up and tucked it in one of the robot's hands.

_I'm thinking dinner at the mall. Want to come?_

This whole day felt weird to her. Usually doing this wouldn't feel like such a... _problem_, really. Felt like she was imposing on him all of a sudden, or something, instead of just trying to enjoy his company. It would have been so much nicer if they'd just came here to enjoy themselves, actually live like people and not agents.

God, Riley, you really have to stop being such a martyr. He's in danger out there; you're doing the right thing. Now... get outta here!

She headed for the door, planted her hand on the knob, and froze when she heard the sudden rolling of tires on the street outside, coming to a halt.

"Oh shit," she whispered.

A/N: Lot's of exposition, so sorry about that. I intended to write a lot more, but I think this is a good start-off point to the next chapter, which should have a few... surprises. I'll get to work on that immediately, so stay tuned.


	6. Would It Help If

**No Trespassing**

Chapter Six: Would It Help if I Made You Feel More Comfortable?

Cameron shifted the drive up to _park_ and narrowed her eyes at the Connor house, past Michael. Mike had turned himself around in his seat, crouching on his knees and lower legs so he could talk to John. Very dangerous; he'd dispensed with his seatbelt and statistically speaking, most car accidents occurred within one mile of the vehicle's destination. He should have known better.

"You know, when I first told you guys about this, I didn't _think_ you'd be so quick to, uh... want to do it."

"Do you want us to wait instead?" John asked, his tone suggesting that he wouldn't accept any answer other than "no."

"I just don't think we're in the best position yet. I thought you'd want to wait for, y'know, your mom, Derek, that sorta stuff."

The house looked fine, Cameron decided. Nothing suspicious had manifested itself. None that she could see.

"No, we're fine," John said. "We can do this as long as we plan ahead for it, okay? It'll be good, uh... practice." Cameron could practically _hear_ John's grin.

But Mike plainly lacked his enthusiasm. "No, I mean, your arm's all screwed up-"

"I can fix it, dude. And I will. Soon. Real soon."

"-_and_ there's my as, uh, my asthma."

"We should gather supplies," Cameron said. No point in trying to talk John out of this. He'd long since stopped caring about other people's opinions. Cameron resigned herself to this ages ago.

She had to let Michael know that whatever sway he'd once held over John, if any, had disappeared in the interim when they'd last seen each other. John's guilt for not being able to reciprocate Mike's affections had largely disappeared.

"Good idea," said John, causing Mike to sigh in exasperation. "Whad'ya think, Cam?"

"Phased plasma rifle in the 40-watt range, several packs of C4 explosive, and an adequate supply of depleted uranium ammo." She hoped they'd get the joke, although, as in all jokes, there was a measure of truth. Those were the things she _definitely_ would have preferred for this job.

He made a small, quickly strangled noise of half annoyance, half amusement, and said, "Okay, seriously, though."

"I had one of those," Mike said.

"There's plenty to go around," John replied. He waited a beat. "Oh, you mean the 40-watt something?"

"Yeah, a Westinghouse phased plasma gun," Mike said. "Kick-ass piece of engineering, about as big as your torso, I think." He smiled, like he was remembering his first kiss, a fond memory, or _anything_ other than high-tech weaponry. Well, to John, at least, that was probably how it seemed. Cameron, on the other hand, could think of no finer appreciation than that for weaponry. "You guys dink around with your C4 and shotguns, but by that time we could stop _any_ Terminator with one shot."

"How the heck did you carry it?"

"Good question, Johnny. They're meant to be used by Terminators, obviously, but it's possible --and common-- to hold onto them. Real powerful stuff, and you get used to the weight... although I remember one time this guy picked one up and he _totally_ wasn't ready for it; he just fell over like a tree, we had a good laugh."

John guffawed.

"Of course, he was twelve..."

"_Twelve?!_"

"Conscription starts at ten," Mike said patiently, for all the world as if John should have known this by now.

That was actually a rather interesting thought. What if this very instance is the moment John decided to enforce conscription? Depending on temporal variables and a suitable lack of dimensional weaving contradiction, it could very well be. Of course, conscription, when you're waging war against manufactured organisms, isn't exactly a complex conclusion to arrive at.

John said nothing.

He usually masked such instances, eventually, with humor. To hide his self-doubt. Perhaps that would work on Michael, but it wouldn't work, it _never_ worked on Cameron. Cameron saw everything.

"What're they, getting into the places none of the big Terminators can reach?" John cracked a smile.

Mike also smiled. Cameron turned to the house again and looked at John's window in particular.

"Okay, in all seriousness, Cam?"

"Two nine millimeters, a 12 gauge, appropriate ammunition, and some spare C4 should be sufficient." Was that a discoloration she saw..?

"You okay, Cam? You spazing out again?"

Cameron zoomed in. He's using _Cam_ again. He's happy with you.

Or at least tolerant. Cameron saw a face in the window; blonde hair rimming a thin, pale head. Feminine. Cameron quickly scrolled through her facial memory grid, cross-referenced, and color-corrected the visual. The face disappeared, but Cameron already had a working snapshot. She didn't even need the confirmation signal to know who it was.

Riley. In the house.

Cameron narrowed her eyes again and stared back across the road. She jerked the keys out of the ignition and opened the door.

What a shame that you can't be happy back with him.

"Let's go, Michael," she said.

Mike looked at her and smiled timidly. "I think I'll, uh, stay with John. Keep him company, y'know?"

Cameron stared at him for a few seconds, and then looked at John. He'd cocked his brow. Hm.

"I'll be in the house," she said tonelessly.

------------

She reached the front lawn, stopped, and looked at the house again. Zoomed in, her targeting reticules rotating. Riley's face hovered in John's window for a moment, frightened, timid. It shrank back. Did she know she'd been-

-----------

She walked for so long. So very long. Endless. Fruitless. Tireless. Allison Young had a glint in her eye and purpose in her heart; the length of the journey was of no consequence to her. So she'd stop at times to get her bearings, so she'd just stop occasionally to _think, _so the journey, the trek was as long as it was treacherous, but that _never_ gave her purpose to actually end it, to give up.

She weaved between blasted vehicles, their occupants still contained within them. When the bombs dropped, the cars were like flash friers. Microwaves. You couldn't escape. Your skin, your _everything_ was blasted away in that contained shitstorm of heat. Almost everyone who'd been in a car died... if you lived in a city.

She ducked, she climbed over felled streetlights. When the bombs dropped, the streetlights toppled like dominoes. Bowling pins. All at once everything just goes flying. The last one she'd had to maneuver around had pieces of bone underneath it. It crushed someone when it fell over. How ironic; that person probably escaped a vehicle, only to get crushed.

She wandered in and through desolated buildings. When the bombs dropped, the buildings collapsed in on themselves. Pancakes. Hundreds, thousands of people all at once flying through the air, like gravity had ceased to exist, and then being crushed by thousands of tons of debris and rock. Smears of bloody ichor, long since wiped clean by the wind, by the rain, the sun. Nothing left but the concrete where they'd died.

Allison walked alone... and really, you'd have to be an idiot to want to walk out here alone. You'd go insane from the contemplation of it all, without _something_ to keep your mind off of it. A companion. She didn't take companions. Her kind never did. Her kind just walked, or they ran until they reached their destination. She delivered special messages to important people in the resistance. A courier of sorts. That was her job. She didn't take companions because she didn't want to be slowed down.

Sometimes she forced herself to stop. It's alright to take breaks sometimes. Natural. Okay, _often_ she forced herself to stop, but for good reason; unwanted attention from HKs were usually the biggest perpetrator, and this instance was no exception. She crouched in the misty darkness between the two shells of blasted vehicles and waited. At normal height, the fumes of decade old ash and sulfur were... tolerable. Down this low, you started to cough. She ignored it. She'd gotten used to it.

The shrill, continuous hum of jet engines carried far, their only company being the distant explosions of far-off battles. So easy to hear things nowadays... now that there's hardly any people.

Allison looked around for a few seconds, trying to find where the HKs would be flying in from. Buildings, some standing tall, some barely standing at all so as to appear that they were actually _swaying_ surrounded her. Close to the suburbs. She knew that. The city was an obvious place for refugees to hide out, and so the concentration of Skynet there was highest. John's hideout, his command center, his nexus, _throne_ was somewhere out in the suburbs. Even she didn't know the exact location; a matter of trust, everyone said.

Allison understood that. Suspicion was very high nowadays; had been for years, ever since the first infiltrators started to crop up, and they were only getting better.

A shriek of noise, like a million people screaming at once, erupted from behind her. She scrambled back and craned her neck up to watch as a bunch of Hunter-Killer aerials flew overhead in diamond formation. The ground lit up as their spotlights stabbed down into the ruination of Los Angeles, searching for targets. Allison Young could see the ground in front of her now, the brand of car she hid behind; Nissan. She hugged her body to the cold, rusted metal, being careful not to cut herself on it. Last thing she needed, really.

A big, fat troop transport hung in the middle of the formation, while the nimbler HKs fanned out to the sides, weapon platforms gyrating from their wings. Thin strands of red light pierced down from the barrels of the guns, precision lasers. Allison sat very still, wondering if she should go under one of the cars. She didn't think she'd have to. It look looked like a fairly light patrol. Pale, white light blew up around her as one of the spotlights passed her by. But the aerial didn't seem to take notice; the red laser passed once over her leg and continued onward. The HKs, glowing hellishly as they went, departed as quickly as they'd arrived. Their tail-blinkers, red and blue, were soon the only things Allison could see.

She stood up and stared after them, waiting. The only sound that remained was the howling of wind through broken buildings, whining as it whipped around the rusty metal vehicles outside. The HK formation went further and further ahead, unhurried and unaware.

Maybe two or three miles from Allison's position, a sudden stab of white light shone in the distance; on the ground. A thin, pale trail-blaze erupted as a rocket took flight, shining brilliantly as it went. The rocket almost immediately shifted its course, curving like one would go over a hill. The HK formation scattered, engines whining shrilly, as Allison, only now, heard the report of the rocket being fired in the first place.

There came another explosion of light; literally an explosion, and one of the HKs faltered and tumbled down towards the Earth, one of it's engines smoking and blasted. More lights... blue, purple, bright white. The HKs took aim and fired at their targets as another orange explosion erupted from one of their number; the big troop transport fractured in midair, its pieces and cargo falling every which way. The HKs began to circle around like vultures, lasers and doped plasma accelerators piercing towards the surface.

The battle was already over. The resistance members were already far away, their target having been destroyed. They'd either get away safely or be picked off by the HKs; that was how things worked.

Allison continued on, moving past the destroyed cars and further into the suburbs. The HKs danced across the sky in the distance, and she paid them no mind. By the time she reached the place where the battle had been waged, maybe forty five minutes later, Skynet's war machines had gone. So had the resistance. The only thing left was a smoking, wrecked troop transport about fifty meters from where she stood, and she gave that a wide berth; she didn't know if any of the Terminators inside had survived or not.

By this time the city lay far behind her, the blackened tips of the skyscrapers still reaching for the heavens. There'd be no one to help them along anymore. Ahead of Allison were the suburbs. Rolling hills. Hollywood. She looked for the letters off in the distance and saw absolutely nothing. Maybe they couldn't be seen from here.

She started her journey again, just thinking to herself for a while, occasionally glancing back behind her to make sure the troop transport still lay destroyed and dormant. There was an outpost somewhere in North Hollywood. They'd knock her unconscious with local anesthetic when she reached it, and they'd bring her to Connor's base, deep underground. She just had to reach that place, deliver her message, and await further orders.

She just had to find that outpost. They were always moving.

She couldn't wait to see John.

On she went, for about an hour. Before too long she encountered her first free-standing house; a ranch estate, moldy looking and blackened with decade old heat. A large APC with a chain gun attached to the top squatted to the building's left side, and Allison just watched the house for a little while before she saw a face appear at one of the windows; young, male, tired. He stood there for a moment before turning his eyes toward Allison. They widened sharply. Frightened-

-----------

-spotted?

Cameron blinked.

-----------

The door slammed in Cameron's wake. Mike blinked. _The fuck's her deal?_

John cleared his throat. "Um..."

Mike turned to him again, rolling his eyes. "She's changed, huh?"

"You don't know how much," John said, sounding weary all of a sudden. Cameron continued on up onto the porch. She stopped for a second and stood there, staring at the house. Meanwhile, John went on,"After the explosion, I..."

"Wait- what?" Mike whipped back over to him, forgetting about the Terminator outside. "Explosion?!"

The other kid closed his eyes. Tightly. Painful memory, Mike thought. "Forgot you didn't know that, sorry... Um. Two months ago someone tried to blow up our car. It was a deal gone bad, for... y'know, the Turk."

He nodded. Christ, he... "Right, I remember."

"A-anyway, she was _in_ the car when that happened. She survived --obviously-- but, y'know, it fucked up her computer chip real bad. I don't even wanna go into it, it makes her do all these weird things..."

"How do you mean, weird?"

John coughed and looked away. "More..."

"Human, right?"

"Yeah. And less. She's just gotten weird." They both looked out, and John sighed. "See what I mean?"

Cameron stood on the lawn, not moving an inch. John shook his head and tapped on the window twice. "Cam! Hey!"

The Terminator, seemingly bewitched with movement, turned slightly to watch John. In that moment they shared a brief, almost imperceptible nod, and she continued on into the house. John scoffed. "I dunno if she just wants attention or what..." His eyes flitted over to Mike. "So, uh. What's uh-what's up?"

Mike shrugged. "Nothin'." He made himself smile. Suavely, he hoped. Really hoped.

They watched each other for a bit, the both of them occasionally finding other, more fascinating things in the Ram to examine. Like dust.

"I think Cameron can use some help," John said. Eventually. There was a bit of a hitch in his voice, so he cleared it out.

"She's a cyborg." Mike smirked. "I'm sure she can manage." He pointed at John's listless arm, nodding. "That's gonna get even worse, we should fix it."

"We."

"Yep."

"I can set it back by myself. I know how."

"It's better if someone does it for you, trust me. You should just relax."

John quirked an eyebrow, looking confused. " Uh, _no, _Mike. I... I can do it myself. Jeez."

Once more, another uncomfortable silence. Mike lowered himself into the back of his seat, touching his head against it, his face getting... really, really hot. Like he had a damned fever, but he just felt humiliated. _Fucking fuck, hell, _he hadn't learned a single _goddamned_ thing. He _knew_ it. He was _right there, sitting_ there, and Mike _still_ wanted to... to... How did he keep his composure for that long...?

"Well," Mike said, looking back up, suddenly hopeful. "I can... y'know, I... hold on. I mean, I know that can't exactly be... not painful, so why don't I just... y'know, y'know, uh, di... stract you, or something?"

John blinked. Realization dawned on his face. "And how would you distract me, Mike." He looked so pitying. Not nice pitying. The kind you hate. The embarrassing kind. Worse, much, much worse than him being angry.

"I-I mean, I mean, I _don't_ mean what you... think... I meant..." He had to clear his throat. "I meant talking, or..."

"Or what?"

No way to really describe this feeling. Why'd he stay here? He felt so bad now, he felt... horny, goddamnit, and... fuck, _that_ was sudden, how quickly it all just... fell apart. He didn't even know why he'd done this. What did he expect would happen? Things would just take off on their own?

John leaned forward. "Mike..."

"Yeah?"

"Look at me."

Mike looked at him, still... blushing. "What?"

"Go find Cameron and help her." He was --astonishingly-- gentle as he said it.

"No, I didn't mean anything by that-"

"But you did. You did, Mike." He nodded, looking _straight_ at him. "You did."

"Why do you feel bad for me?"

"I can't help feeling bad for you."

"I'm not some helpless fucking animal, so _don't,_ okay?"

John shut his eyes, opened them after a little bit. He seemed so fucking relaxed, it pissed Mike off. Wasn't he in pain? Didn't that arm hurt? "No, Mike. I can't help it... Y'know, I wonder, if I _ever_ offered myself to you, in some y'know, weird bizarre world, I don't think that would satisfy you. You'd want me to feel the same way about you that you do about me."

"Shut up."

"But I _can't,_ Mike. I _never_ will. You need to accept that."

"No, no, no, I told you two months ago I wouldn't-"

"You still do."

"No I don't."

"Yes, you do!" He bounced slightly in his seat, like he wanted to jump up and down shouting "yes, you do!" again and again until his voice got raw. Worse than that, he didn't even seem that angry, he just seemed _exasperated. _"Mike... I'm sorry-"

Mike smacked the back of the seat, in lieu of hitting his future commander-in-chief (holy crap) in the face. "I'll go help Cameron."

"Wonderful."

He left. He felt, very suddenly, like he wanted to cry, but he refused to do that. What would the point be?

--------------

_Shit, shit, shit._

Riley peeked out the window again, trying to keep herself from sweating even more than she was already. A guy about John's age shuffled slowly up towards the house. The truck outside just sat there. No sign of John, just this kid and Cameron. Cameron would probably check John's room. She _had_ to get out, you couldn't _hide_ from something like that.

She just _had_ to go in John's room, didn't she? _You're such a screwup, Riley. _She'd never make it out the window; too high, much too high up. She wouldn't make the fall. Just down the hall was a balcony that had steps going down to the front lawn, but Cameron would hear her moving around. They had such good hearing. Riley slapped a hand over her forehead; felt the sweat beading there, running down to her face, smearing her makeup. For _so_ long Cameron had just tolerated Riley; they had to know she was a security threat, all of them, (maybe not John) but Cameron alone suspected her the most. The fucking robot would take _any_ reason she could get to finally terminate her. Oh god. Jesse fucking talked about this. She- she said-

She had to hide. Just hide. Under the bed- No, too small, she'd see you. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

Behind the door? Goddamnit, no...

Riley trotted over to the window again and stared down the length of the building. A clump of flowers down there, not taken care of at all. Some were busily wilting. Not a drain pipe in sight, too, but she wouldn't be able to make the climb anyway. Bed sheets might... No, don't be fucking stupid, Riley, you're not as good at this secret agent crap as Jesse.

Okay. Breathe.

Riley breathed, taking in a loud, sucking gust of air. Calm yourself...

She stiffened as she heard noise beneath her. A loud, ominous echo that pierced through the quiet, sharp as a knife. Moving furniture. What the hell?

Oh, brilliant.

Riley tip-toed over to the door and planted her ear on the wood. She listened for a few seconds, hearing nothing but whatever it was they were doing down there. Who was that kid? What was Cameron doing with him? No time to care. Didn't matter. Riley cracked the door open a bit and peeked out, looking both ways down the hall. She knew this place like the back of her hand; Jesse made sure of that.

Nothing around. Not even a mote of dust out of place. She glided the door open just a tad more and slid out, keeping her eyes peeled. She started to creep down the hall, towards the balcony door. It seemed to stand there at the end of the hall like distant monolith, forever on the horizon. How could something so close seem so far? The moving of furniture ceased downstairs. Everything went dead silent for a few seconds, but then she could hear someone speaking. Male. The kid.

She kept sweating. Nothing would make her stop, not until she was out of here. Long out of here. She'd have to keep calling John after all this, and maybe-

Hurm. What if the truck outside... but why would he stay? Worth a look, anyway. Just a quick look, and then she'd walk away. Run, even.

Cameron said something downstairs, and then more footsteps. Just keep walking, Riley. Calm yourself. Please, please calm yourself. You faced down that other Terminator, showed him who's boss. Cameron's even smaller than him.

But that guy had been _clueless. _Cameron, she just... Terminators couldn't hate. Everyone said that. Robots. They lack feelings. But Cameron...

Cameron hated her. Riley could feel it. That big Terminator got duped exactly _because_ he was so dumb and so uninterested. But Cameron just... _watched_ her. Every move she made. When they saw each other her eyes would narrow like she wished she could shoot laser beams at Riley, just kill her by looking at her.

Cameron _knew_ malice. And she could use it if she wanted to.

Riley kept her eyes fixed on the door. Amazing how close it seemed now. Just a little further... It's okay. It's gonna be okay. You'll be fine. You won't be heard. She grasped the door knob and nearly collapsed in an odd mixture of joy and exhaustion.

Okay... okay... stop breathing so loud, you won't be able to hear anything if somebody-

"Hello, Riley."

She whirled around, releasing the door knob. For a world, she didn't scream.

Cameron stood behind her, hands at her sides. She cradled a package underneath her arm, yellow and full of packing material. Her eyes stared straight at Riley; she had that... death's head glare they all got when they were about to zero a target. Riley saw it happen once. This lieutenant was walking through the hall, and a guy started coming down the other direction. Their eyes met and the man just stopped and tilted his head, his face going expressionless, slack. He reached out, grabbed the lieutenant's head and, without any effort, broke his neck.

The T got disabled after killing four more people... then, a week later Riley saw it again in the halls, greeting passerby's politely.

Riley put her hands up, smirking wryly. "Okay, you caught me."

"Breaking and entering is a crime," Cameron said.

"I got a key from Kacy," Riley said. "I, uh, left my cellphone here the other night."

Cameron shook her head immediately. "No, you didn't." She took a step forward.

Don't sweat. Don't let her know you're nervous; oh fuck, she probably knows anyway, she's a goddamned robot. "Uh, how would _you_ know?"

"I was in John's room last night; I didn't see a cellphone."

"Exactly. You didn't see it." Riley sighed. "Look, I'm leaving, okay?"

She turned around, grasped the door handle, and turned it. Waited. Waited. Stopped waiting. She opened the door and took a step forward. Holy crap, she-

"Wait."

Not a suggestion. Riley froze in mid-step. Cameron strode up behind her and... gently, very gently, wrapped a hand around her shoulder. Pulled. Riley's shoulders arched back a bit, like she'd just touched something disgusting, something slimy and wet.

"Get-"

Cameron turned her around and, stepping close, cocking her head as she examined the girl's face. Riley's arms started to shake very, very slightly.

"Cameron... what are you doing?" she said, forcing the words out between nigh-uncooperative lips.

The Terminator didn't respond; instead she brought her hand up and cupped it underneath Riley's jaw. She tilted Riley's head back and forth, very swiftly for a second or two. Riley stopped breathing. She just waited. Oh god. She'd kill her now. This is it.

All she did... all... oh god, oh god-

Cameron's stoney glare melted into a toothy, almost retardedly cheerful grin. "You look pale, Riley. Are you sick?" Tilt.

"N-n-no-no, no. No. I'm, no. I'm not." She backed up a bit, grasping the door handle to stabilize herself. Tilt tilt.

"Oh. Are you sure?" She kept smiling. Just kept smiling. "You should see a doctor." Tilt.

"I-I'll be... I'll be..."

"I'll tell John-" Cameron kept smiling. Her eyes seemed to fix themselves on some distant point, far away from Riley. Past her. Through her. Cameron stopped moving altogether and just stood there, motionless. Her hand still hung underneath Riley's chin, almost pinching it now.

Riley blinked. Twice. Her arms kept shaking. Cameron continued to stand there.

She backed up. Slowly. Cameron's cupped hand remained right where it was, stationary. Hanging in midair. A waiting vise.

What...

She gulped, let out a long, gasping sob, and scrambled through the door, shutting it behind her.

-------------

Allison circled the house before she actually decided to go near it. There came no sounds from the place as she investigated the area, no nothing. No lights. Not a peep. The APC sat there, unattended to. Besides the boy she'd caught eye of a few minutes ago, there was nothing else. Maybe he was alone. Behind her, beyond the house, far away from this area, another explosion sounded off. The ground ahead of her lit up with brilliant whiteness, and she ignored it. She passed by the skeleton of a dog, and she scooted one of the skull pieces out of her way as she walked. After a while, she'd reached the place she'd started from, and she examined the house again.

The house had only one story, with a black-tiled roof squatting above it. Most of the tiles were gone, revealing the dull brown architecture underneath it. Below that, the house was faded and white, with three windows running along the side. Two windows sat together, with a broken air conditioner hanging out the right-most one. Past that was a partition of white, and then another window, the window she'd seen the soldier in. That window was empty now. Beneath and around the two windows, the house was black and gutted, debris hanging everywhere around it. To the left of that was a closed-in patio with steps. No door; Allison couldn't see any evidence of one besides the fact that a frame hung there. No one moved within.

Eventually, she decided to approach the house. She had to go down a slight hill to get there, and she was surprised to find a car sitting derelict below her. It hadn't been touched in years, and the top of it had been blown off. She went past it.

"Hold it," someone whispered.

Allison stopped. She blinked a few times and stared around herself, searching for the origin of the voice. Man's voice.

Something clicked a few feet away, and then there came a few shuffling footsteps. Allison perked her head in that direction, frowning. Maybe she ought to run...

But no, she wouldn't make it more than a few feet. If he had a plasma rifle, she was done for.

Eventually a man appeared in the darkness to her right, aiming a large plasma pistol at her. He had to hold it with both hands; they were pistols, but in the resistance they were treated as rifles. He wore a grey beanie over his head, wrinkled with thin, dark lines across its surface. His face was very thin and smooth, with the beginnings of a goatee around his chapped mouth. Allison could make out a pair of blue eyes, which shone in the darkness. Below all that, he wore an overcoat with kevlar beneath. Allison moved her head a bit, recognizing him. It was the kid from the window.

"Stop right there," he said in a weird accent that Allison couldn't place. He sounded like an east-coaster... maybe from Boston.

"I am," Allison said.

"Hands up, okay?" He took a moment to look around the area, and then back at her. "Uh, what's ya name?"

"Allison Young."

"Numbahs too, c'mon."

"DN-87157, private first class Tech-Com."

"Tech-Com?"

Allison nodded silently.

"That's, uh, Connah's outfit, right?" He took a step forward, reaching his hand out to grab her face. Allison let him do it. His hands felt clammy and very cold. He looked nervous, too. He turned Allison's face slightly in his hands. "Why ya so pale, ya sick or sommin'?"

"No. I'm... trying to get back to the HQ. I've got a message for them."

The kid said nothing for a little bit. He looked around again.

"Do you know where it is?" Allison asked.

"Lemme see ya bracelet."

Allison showed it to him.

"That doesn't mean anythin', you can still be uh, be a T fer all I know."

"I'm not. Please," she turned to him. "I've got to hurry to his base. I've got a message for them."

The kid shook his head rapidly. "No way in hell, lady. I'm bringin' ya in."

She sighed. No point in resisting. "I'm not a Terminator."

"We'll let Spahky figure that one out. Move. I've got you covahed, don't even think about runnin'."

"Sparky?" A dog?

"You'll see. Move it, girlie."

Allison started to move, and the kid followed her, keeping a good distance. She could feel him continually looking behind himself, perpetually nervous. They moved up onto the porch, carefully dodging a broken step, and Allison walked into the house.

The kid told her to stop in a small antechamber. It was brown and smelled of mildew, without so much as a working lightbulb to illuminate it.

"Yo!" the kid yelled. "I got huh!"

"Bring 'er in," someone replied.

"Awright, move."

Allison moved to the door, planted her hand on the handle. She waited a second, looking back at the soldier. He stared right back at her, suddenly appearing... apologetic. He cleared his throat, grasping the hem of his coat collar. "Hey, uh, sorry about all this, jus' bein' careful, ya know?"

"I know," Allison said. She twisted the handle and went on in, the kid still following.

Once inside she found herself standing in a wide living room with faded wallpaper -- brown, like the antechamber. The air conditioner she'd seen before hung from one of the windows. The living room was filled with people; mostly refugees in various states of disorientation; they wore rags, their hair looked scraggly and plastic. The smell of unwashed humanity was overwhelming; Allison had forgotten what that was like.

This place in particular had better lighting than the antechamber, but only a token lightbulb hanging from the ceiling just the same. Two resistance members, one carrying a Westinghouse plasma rifle, the other an M4-A1 carbine, stood nearby. A german shepherd lay in between them.

No one said anything. They all just looked at the dog as Allison entered the room.

If it barked, even if mistaken, she'd be dead. Allison watched the dog.

It looked... ill. It's legs were like thin sticks. You could see the bone sticking out, and Allison could easily see the poor things ribcage against its stomach. The dog glanced in her direction, whined pathetically, and slumped its head again, like it wanted to just curl up and die.

It probably would. Soon.

One of the resistance members, he had this beard sticking down to his neck, grunted and patted the dog with his free hand. "Alright, you check out, although this bitch's a real poor judge right now, so..."

"Is she okay?" Allison asked, choosing to relax a little. The younger resistance fighter moved past her, looking relieved. He wasn't the only one; all the refugees seemed to be breathing normally now.

"She certainly ain't," the soldier said. He nodded at the kid. "Jimmy, she's your dog, whad'ya think?"

"She's gonna fuckin' die, I could'a sworn I told you."

"No need to get defensive," the older soldier said. Allison spared a glance at Jimmy. He shook his head at his dog; probably he'd resigned himself to her fate a while ago. The soldier continued. "This sure does put us at a disadvantage." He looked at Allison.

"Can she be healed?" She may as well try to help the process along, get them to trust her so they wouldn't have to go through all this.

"Whad'a'we look like," Jimmy said, whipping back to her. "Fuckin' vetah'nareans?"

"I..." She stopped. "No."

"Great, then don't talk."

"This still don't solve what we do with her," the older soldier said. "Like I said, can't exactly go on ol' Daisy's word right now."

The third soldier, the one with the M4-A1, chose to speak up. "Let's isolate her for the night." He scratched his chin. Looked fantastically bored. "Observe, y'know?"

"Who'll do it, one o' these people?" The bearded soldier swept a hand at the gathered refugees, and, almost like they were one being, they scampered back towards the wall. The soldier frowned.

"Let Jimmy do it."

Jimmy frowned. "What the fuck, dude, if she's a T I don't wanna be around huh." He quickly nodded at Allison. "Uh, no offense."

"Whoever heard of a girl robot, anyway?"

"They make both kinds."

"I'm not a Terminator," Allison said patiently, wishing they'd just let her go.

The older soldier continued; "Jimmy, you got that rifle, reckon you'd fry her easy if she tried anything, and she ain't armed. Just sit in the same room for a night 'n keep an eye on 'er."

Allison's eyebrows twitched. Were they really this cavalier about potentially executing a fellow _human_? People sometimes...

Well. She'd gone through this before. Everyone did.

"How the hell am I gonna figuh' out if she's a T?" Jimmy absently bent forward and pet his dog. The German shepherd craned its neck up to lick his hand. Jimmy sighed, shook his head. "Y'know, fine. I don't wanna stick aroun' to see huh crook, anyway."

"I'm sure she'll last a while yet."

Allison shut the door behind her. This made the older soldier chuckle. He laid the plasma rifle down against the wall. "I think you'll check out jus' fine, miss. 's just that this ol' dawg here ain't feeling right."

"I really have to keep going..."

"Goin' where?"

"Tech-Com headquarters."

The man grunted. "We're headed there ourselves. Transportin' these here refugees. We're movin' on out in the mornin', reckon you can join us, assumin' you check out."

Allison shrugged. "I can use some sleep anyway."

"Great. You 'n Jimmy go in the back room, it's spacious, so dun' worry about it." He nodded. "That's a fine idea, you jus' sleep. Jimmy'll watch over you."

Jimmy said nothing. He hefted his plasma pistol again and jerked his head over to a door at the far side of the living room. A hushed conversation started up amongst the refugees; Allison figured that her entrance had interrupted whatever talks they'd been having. Allison sighed again, squared her shoulders, and followed in Jimmy's wake, but not before she looked back at his dog and said; "Can I do anything?"

"To what?" The bearded soldier glanced at her.

"Help her."

"You good at that sort'o thing?"

Allison paused a beat, and then said, "No."

"Then you cain't. Best go now."

She did. And the dog died about forty minutes later.

-----------

Cameron violently twisted her hand, expecting to meet bone resistance and, promptly, to break it.

"-you were here!" she bleated cheerfully. Then her eyes widened. Her hand twisted through air and, as if embarrassed, she lowered the arm.

She stared at the empty doorway for a few seconds, and then turned back to go downstairs again. She'd have to perform a diagnostic very soon, figure out what was going on here. It was effecting her behavior.

----------

Mike looked up as Cameron came down the stairs. "There you are, I was getting worried." He smirked.

She shrugged. It was sort of weird, seeing her act so human, but Mike had gotten used to her being different from the stock fare. "Sarah must have moved the shotgun."

Mike held two pistols and a box full of ammunition underneath his arm. "You guys hid these things pretty well."

"I hid them. Everyone else moves them." She walked down into the living room, stood in the center for a brief moment, and then crouched next to the carpet, pulling it up a bit.

"Why would they do that?" Mike asked.

"So I can't access them easily."

"But you're the bodyguard."

"I've gone bad once before." She grabbed a piece of wood and moved it up off the floor. Then she grabbed a small red box of buckshot ammunition. "They'd rather minimize the damage I can do than make sure I can defend the house."

Mike blinked. "Uh. Gone bad?"

"Yes." She looked up at him. "Ever since the reprogramming drive started, some Terminators have reverted back to their base programing. You can imagine the results."

"What's your base programming?" Mike asked.

Cameron paused for a second, staring at the floor. "I was built by the resistance. My CPU is fully customized, but they had to use a regular chip to begin the process. So yes, I retained certain basic parameters."

"So, what happened?"

Cameron stood up. "I tried to kill John."

Mike gulped. "Oh." Fuck, he almost wished she'd succeeded, what with how the kid treated him. Mike quickly put paid to that thought, however. He couldn't stay mad at John, no matter how much he wanted to. "But... you're okay now, right?"

"Yes. No one trusts me anymore, however."

"I can see why."

"So do I." She smiled softly, standing up and ruffling her hair a little. "I hope it doesn't factor in between us."

What the... Mike tilted his head. "What?"

"We're friends, Mike. I was just hoping the fact that I'd gone bad would do nothing to change that."

"We're..." he gulped and rubbed his forehead. Jeez, she sure did have her switches, didn't she? "Uh."

"Friends confide in each other," Cameron said patiently. "And we've both done that. Remember when you talked to me at the library?"

Mike remembered that. He remembered that really fucking well. That was before he got shot in the goddamned chest, when he told Cameron he was in love with his future commander. He told her everything. Everything.

The weird thing about that? She'd been totally cool about it. Supportive, even. Whereas that Riley bitch...

"Yeah... I guess you're right, but..."

"But what?" Cameron started walking again, towards the kitchen now. Mike absently followed her, his free hand twisting around in his hair. He did that sometimes, when he thought a lot.

"What have _you_ told me? I haven't really heard anything... y'know, secret about you, or... I dunno."

"You have," she said. They entered the kitchen. Really nice kitchen, too; nicer than Philip and Cheri's. Hell, the whole _house_ was nicer. Christ, how much had this place cost? "I told you how I was made."

"That's confiding?"

"I haven't told anyone else about it."

Mike smirked a bit. Eh. That _was_ something, he guessed... "Not even John? And what're we looking for?"

"Franchi SPAS-12 pump action shotgun. Check the fridge, and no, not even John."

Mike smiled wider. "Thank you."

She looked at him and smiled back. "You're welcome."

They searched for a while after that, not really saying much. To be honest, Mike still felt a little sore about... well, everything. Everything with John, from Riley, to that really fucking clumsy attempt at getting him to unwind. He almost hadn't wanted to call John in the first place, cause he'd been afraid he'd start to... like him again. And boy, did that happen quick.

Well. It'd be alright. They'd go out there, and they'd keep their mind on getting rid of the Terminator. Mike knew where the thing operated, so it'd at least be quick. Hell, Cameron would do all the work. Probably. If they could just not talk about... _anything_ in particular, it'd go pretty smoothly, in fact! Mike smirked at that. Two guys, and a robot. How could they _not_ talk about shit.

_You really gotta let it go, Mike. He's spoken for, for chrissake. You can't hope he'd go gay for you, or something like that. _

And yet on he went.

"Uh, hey?" Mike cleared his throat.

"Yes?"

"Who's Riley?"

Cameron visibly glowered at the name. Mike would have done a spit-take if he'd been drinking something. Easily. "She's John's girlfriend," she said, a little too hesitantly.

"You don't like her."

"No. She's an acute security risk. She brings John into danger, so no, I don't like her at all... She complicates things for all of us, not just John."

Mike had to ask; "What, and I don't?" Deep down, he could scarcely believe Cameron's explanation: after all, he knew jealousy when he heard it. Weird that a robot would feel that way, but there you go. Mike determined that John and Cameron had the hots for each other a while ago, but... they weren't exactly eager to let that come to fruition, which helped Mike somewhat. Riley, though...

Wait, _helped_ him? Jesus, Mike. Enough of this.

Cameron tilted her head at his question. _She hasn't considered that,_ Mike thought. Eventually, though, the Terminator simply said, "No."

A brief pause; Mike could tell she'd say something else, and he oddly found himself stiffening nervously while thinking of what it could be. In the meantime, he checked the fridge and found a shotgun tucked into a meat drawer, divided into several pieces. He stooped, placed down the ammo he'd been holding onto, and started to gather up the shotgun.

"You can at least fire a weapon," Cameron said. "But your attraction to John does concern me, somewhat."

Mike blinked, freezing. "Uh. Why?"

"Anything outside the norm concerns me."

He stood up and looked back at her. That was either a really cheap dig at his sexuality or just her way of thinking; he felt inclined to believe the latter. "But?"

She shrugged. "But he's unlikely to return your affections, which lessens the difficulty you pose in addressing my mission to protect him."

Mike shook his head and grabbed the remaining shotgun pieces. Didn't that just fucking take the cake? "Great. Glad I could help." He shoved the shotgun parts onto the nearby counter and leaned on the back of it, folding his arms. "Put this together, would you?"

Cameron frowned. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to hurt your feelings."

"I know you didn't." He didn't look at her.

She came over and stood next to him, turned towards the counter. She picked up a part and held it in her hands, silent for a little bit. Almost like she was brooding. Mike didn't move, his mind a maelstrom of unwanted thoughts. God... god he really couldn't get over this, could he? John was right. Totally right. Even if they... did anything together, it still wouldn't matter unless John actually _liked_ him like that, and he _wouldn't._ Mike sometimes wondered how this even happened, why he even... felt this way to begin with.

It started as just... the idea of him being a kid like Mike. The commander as contemporary, the idol as just one of the guys. That appealed to Mike. _Had_ appealed to him. Everyone, man and woman, loved John for what he represented in the future. Mike had too. The idea of being able to know him when he was still growing up just overwhelmed his sensibilities. He fell in love. Just couldn't help it.

But now... even when he knew it was impossible, he still couldn't get over it. He felt sick of himself. He _didn't_ feel sick of dreaming about it, though. In detail.

Hell. He wouldn't even know how to handle that. He'd barely been able to handle Aaron. _That_ hadn't really been love so much as it was... them being really, really friendly to each other. A mentorship, really. He always got the feeling that Aaron wanted Mike to love him, but he'd been young and...

Yeah. Anyway. He sighed.

"Are you alright?" Cameron asked.

"Uh. I guess." God, he may as well be honest with her. "I'll be fine."

He could feel her looking at him. He turned his head toward the refrigerator, away from her. He shook his head again. "I'm just trying to sort myself out."

"You must be very lonely." She wasn't working on the shotgun. She wasn't doing anything.

Mike blinked. He couldn't bring himself to say anything for a little bit until he managed to find his voice. "People like me usually are."

"Some aren't."

"Only on TV," Mike said. One day, when he was living in Wichita with Cheri and Philip, he picked up a TV guide and flipped through it. Some show about gay people had been listed; a comedy, or reality show, or something. He decided to give it a whirl and found that he couldn't even make it past one episode. It was horrible, it made him feel as if... he was _wrong_ somehow, like he should have been acting different. What the fuck was he supposed to know about... hair, or fashion, for chrissake?

Cameron and Michael said nothing for a very, very long time. Mike fidgeted, he couldn't make himself look at her. Cameron? She just stood by. Watching. It should have felt creepy to him, but god, at least she _cared, _right?

"Can I do anything to help?" Cameron eventually asked.

Mike licked his lips. "Uh, no, no. Thank you. I don't... I don't think so. I just wish..."

"That he'd pay attention to you?"

"He does, Cameron. He does, just... I'd like it if he... but he can't, so... y'know, it's okay. I'll deal. Really." Man... "Listen, he's probably waiting for us."

"There's nothing I can do to help?" Cameron asked again, as if she hadn't heard that last bit.

Mike opened his mouth. And then he closed it. Wait. What was she...? What? But... He sent a sharp look over to her. "What are you suggesting?"

She looked back, very evenly. Very frankly. "I'm sorry, Mike. You just seemed tense. I was wondering if you'd like to relieve that?" Somehow, she'd ended up right in front of Mike.

Oh, god, she _was._ "Cameron, I..." He laughed. "_What?_ I mean, you know I wouldn't exactly... _What_? Why? Why would you want to do that?"

"I don't. Not necessarily. But would you?"

"You... you... don't..."

"I feel empathy, Michael. Even if I'm not human, I can still feel sympathetic. That's why. I'd like to cheer you up." She planted her hand on his neck. "If you see a turtle flat on it's back, you should offer to pick it back up again-"

"No! Absolutely not. I'm sorry. That's great and all, Cameron, but you're still a fucking robot and nothing will change that. I, I mean... you'd have to have a reason for wanting to." Was this conversation _really_ taking place? Mike felt like the world had turned upside down, and, holy fuck, he bet John would have _killed_ to be in his position.

"We're friends. Friends help friends. They comfort each other." Dear god, did she even know what she was talking about?

"Not by offering to have _sex_ with them, and, y'know, certainly not robots. No, Cameron. Just... drop it, okay?" God, she had to have a motive for wanting to do this. In all honesty, even if he _was_ wired differently... god, he hadn't even jerked off in ages, the hospital people were such fucking tight asses, always wandering into his room... He wanted to, sure. Absolutely. Even with a woman. But _Cameron?_ The machine? Fuck that. She had to have a reason in that chip of hers, some ulterior long-term motive. It just made him... feel like...

No. No way. No way, jose.

Cameron said nothing for a bit, and now Mike _really_ couldn't look at her. He'd just wait for her to walk away. And he'd forget they had this conversation. Sure.

He waited, constantly clearing his throat. He was blushing, wasn't he? God, yeah. He was.

"Would it help if I made you feel more comfortable?" Cameron said.

And she said it using John's voice.

Mike's eyes widened sharply.

W...

What.

Oh.

He wanted to laugh. He tried, in fact, but some weird, incomprehensible noise just escaped his mouth, which hung low, like it was on hinges. Did she really think she'd get him with smoke and mirrors, and _damn_, why so tenacious, did she really-

Mike shut his eyes and bowed his head down, so his chin met his chest. Oh fucking hell, oh... no... He had... He...

"I-I... I gotta sit," he whispered.

Without another word he slid down the counter, sitting half indian-style on the floor. It felt cold down here.

He wanted to hear it again.

"Okay." Still John. Mike openly shuddered, and he felt like he was gonna start crying.

Cameron sat down with him, dusting herself off. He had half a mind to push her away, but he couldn't summon the strength. Half of him, a lot of him, actually wanted her to stay. He had to... he had to have _her_ do it, did he? Simulate _him_. Be the thing Mike would never have. It just... he'd never do it. Never have it. Ever. Ever, ever, ever. _Never._

"It's okay, Mike," Cameron said. She wrapped an arm around his shoulders and pulled him in, just like she'd done a few months ago in the library. Mike did nothing. He stared ahead, at nothing. He saw nothing.

"Do you mind this?" Cameron/John said. She slowly... very gently petted his back. She felt incredibly human. Bit for bit. Word for word, except the voice. If he didn't look, maybe he could just imagine...

"I-I..." He couldn't go on. His eyes blurred up rapidly and he cried, very, very silently. He made no noise.

Never. _She_ was proof of that now. Substitute.

"It's alright," she said.

"No," Mike whispered, eyes closed.

"I want to do this," Cameron said at once, her voice all of his, not a tone, a hitch out of place. She even _sounded_ like him, like... really, her inflection, the... she sounded so perfectly like him.

Mike said nothing for a bit. Then, he figured he could say only one thing: "No."

Cameron lowered her head slightly, exasperated now in her own stoic way. Mike almost wanted to giggle at this. All an act. Of course.

He drew a forearm up and used it to dry his face. "What's the point? It wouldn't change anything."

"It would make you feel better." She said this with her voice. The intimacy of the situation was terminated, destroyed.

Thank god.

"No it wouldn't, and you know that." He sighed. "Look, if you wanna make me feel better, just... hold me, okay? You know what that is? It's comfort. That's all you need to do." He leaned back into the cabinet he sat against. He felt almost experimental now; weird. He didn't want her to touch him. He didn't like it even now, but it felt better than nothing.

Cameron, after a long, long moment, moved closer to him and they just sat there, not looking at each other, both disappointed in their own fashions. He could tell Cameron was thinking. About what, he couldn't even venture a guess.

He wanted...

He wanted to think, too. About his situation. Why had Cameron offered to do that? There had to be a reason. He could ask...

_No._ He couldn't ask John. Oh, fuck no. He'd go _ballistic._ He could say he liked Riley all he wanted, but when the cards were laid out on the table he'd remember which side his bread was buttered on.

It was weird. Cameron probably felt the exact same way _he_ did about John right now. That probably made them kindred spirits. Was that why she wanted to...

Hell, no. Too vague. That didn't make enough sense for Mike to believe it. He glanced to his side, at the cyborg, the fake girl using her fake charms in order to advance her agenda. She glanced to him, quite naturally and simply. She _was_ pretty good at this. She felt warm, welcoming, nice, although her face betrayed any real emotion she might have had. Nodded slightly at him. _Yes?_

Mike sighed and shrugged. Looked back. He'd avoided a land mine back there. No doubt about it. He sniffled, and realized he was crying again. Oh god. Cameron wanted to...

The world felt inverted. Strange.

John _and_ Cameron were both nuts. The kid and the robot he thought he'd known, thought he could be friends with were both... _wrong_ now, wrong and unfamiliar. It upset him. It really did, and the only thing he could think about was how much he regretted starting this in the first place.


	7. Pencils

**No Trespassing**

Chapter Seven: Pencils

Although he practically despised himself for even _mentally_ admitting it, self-inflicted pain had been something of... a fascination of Johns in recent weeks. Now, granted, he certainly hadn't begun to go around in all black and let his hair go to pot again, hadn't started writing _poems_ for goodness sake, but after the whole... "accident" with the handgun he'd begun to... wonder.

What would have happened? If the bullet just... hit him. Would have been easy to happen. It'd been aimed almost directly against his cheek, or maybe a little under his chin, he didn't quite remember... regardless. If, in that moment, when he clumsily pressed on the trigger, felt the hot flash of the Glock discharging in his face... let's say it hit him, instead of missing, hitting the mirror instead. Then what?

Then they rule it suicide and the world ends. It's fantastically simple, Johnny. Mom comes up with some half-baked story to appease the authorities, and then maybe _she_ does herself in. Or she goes even crazier and they lock her in the loony bin all over again.

Ah, ah, _but..._ what if it _doesn't_ kill you at once. He'd heard stories. Hell, he'd been shot in the head once, although that was really a grazing, not a full-on blast... Okay, let's say it _goes in._ To your cheek? Up through your skull? What if he'd survived, if that had happened? What would it feel like?

That's what got the ball rolling. Him wondering what it would have felt like if he'd _shot_ himself, which sensations would he feel, which neurons would flare up in response, what the _rest_ of his body would do at the moment of climax, of the injury, lethal or otherwise. It got him thinking about pain in general, and what it really meant to him. And coupled with his desire to see it... all of it... fly away... never to return... those were some _pretty_ potent mixtures of thought, yes indeed. Maybe about a week ago, he'd left the house early in the morning. Nobody knew. Not even Cameron, cause she'd left. Maybe to the library. Maybe _anywhere_ she wanted. Whatever. He went to school. He didn't know why he wanted to go _there..._ he hadn't been there in weeks, but hey, stranger things happen.

And he went inside the school. He sold a bullshit story to the monitors, that he was coming in early to do a project for extra credit. He went inside a classroom, his old chemistry classroom, and he just... sat there. For a half hour. In silence.

And. Nothing. Happened. No one came to check on him. He heard footsteps outside almost periodically, like a rhythm. Once he saw a face outside the window. An older man which a moustache. He just watched John for a little bit, maybe a minute, and then he walked away. Didn't check. Didn't bother.

John thought about life then, and how much it fucking sucked. Why were these uncaring... _assholes_ worth saving? Furthermore, why did _he_ have to do it?

He kept thinking about his mom, thinking about her crying and hitting a rock with the butt end of a rifle, and how it was _his fault. _His stupidity. He thought about her lying in bed, all sick, and him not wanting to be there anymore.

He decided there that Sarah must have hated him. It was completely unrelated to everything else, but he thought about that anyway. Sarah _probably_ hated him, yeah. Seriously. It wasn't even because of his stupid shit personality, how he wanted to see girls and do his own thing and not have to deal with the _leader_ bullshit. It went further than that. His mom had an _okay_ life, _okay_ circumstances, _okay_ money situation before Kyle came along, before the Terminator almost killed her. John's existence fucked her up. She would have been fine without him. Happy, even. She would have been much, much better off.

John went up to the chemistry desk and started to rifle through it, still thinking. Derek. Cameron. They despised each other. Why? They were on the same side. Why hate each other?

Why did Cameron have to go bad? Why did John have to leave his school, stop seeing Cheri all the time? He _liked_ her.

Why did he have to run away two months ago? Why did everyone he knew, everyone he had a relationship, why did they all have to have stupid secrets or stupid desires that just fucked. him. up? Like Mike. Cameron.

They wondered why he liked Riley. They hated her, because she wasn't in the club. She couldn't be anything beyond _liability. Problem. _How fucked up. How gloriously screwed up. They didn't measure her as a person, instead using adjectives, terms. _Annoyance._

John grabbed a pencil from the desk and examined it for a while, standing next to the door, in plain view for anyone who happened to walk by. Blue, around seven inches, with bright white wood ending in a jet black pinnacle. Some people said _it's a pencil, it's full of lead,_ others say _no, it's full of graphite, _but what they really don't understand is that IT'S THE SAME FUCKING THING.

Felt solid, good in his hand. Familiar, almost.

Suicide, he understood, is a useful strategy designed to keep an agent from revealing vital secrets to the enemy. A razor blade, a cyanide capsule, a holdout pistol, concealed on oneself. Easy, quick, painless.

Painless. Would it _really_ be?

Would he say, in a smelly bunker ten years from now _You're going on a suicide mission, you're gonna die, but don't worry! It'll be PAINLESS. _

People used to say, _Don't try to eat the pencil, you'll get lead poisoning. And don't stab your friends with it, _they'll_ get lead poisoning. _

One day, when he'd been fourteen, he asked Charley if that was true and he said, _no Johnny, they're full of graphite. Different. _

John plunged the sharp pencil point into his hand --sting-- and he just _trembled_. He _just_ shook. He blinked rapidly and he yanked the pencil out. It wasn't even that bloody. Dropped it on the desk. He stared at his palm in fascination, at the tiny, circular black-rimmed wound there. Angry pink in the middle, ring of dark outside.

It hurt. It hurt, it hurt, it hurt. It stung, it teased. Air brushed onto the open wound teased it, twitched it. It'd start to bleed soon. He felt the remnants of the pencil tip _throbbing_ in his skin, underneath his skin. Pain reached out, flexed its muscles, launched itself from his palm and up into his arm. Sat there.

Lead poisoning. Can you die because of that?

He knew nothing about lead poisoning.

He really had to look it up. Did it take long to work?

He sat down again. At the teachers desk this time. He sat there in the darkness for ten minutes, waiting for something to happen before he grabbed the pencil again and stabbed it into his other hand, --sting-- where upon he tried to drag the pencil _through_ his skin so it would make a _circle._ It didn't work. It stuck. Didn't even move. His skin resisted, pushed against the invading object. He ripped it out and winced in pain, the dull, throbbing pain, and then he sat there again. He hiccuped; a giggle. If he wanted... if he wanted, he could go further. He could go all the way. Wouldn't have to wait. Wouldn't have to think. He could pull the pencil, _up, up, up..._ until it was at his neck, and then _BAM_ right in there. Push it in, _all_ the way in. Bleed all over the place, let himself drain dry fucking die, drown on air, like a fish. He could choose to go that far.

That's all suicide is. Choice. How many times, when you're standing at a high point, on top of a building, or on a bridge, do you think... _What if I choose to step a little further? _

You die. He could do that. Choose to do that.

But no. He'd see if the lead poisoning malarky was really true.

He waited.

-------------

Half of war is waiting. Porky learned that in Iraq; oh, sure, he _heard _it beforehand from every other old geezer soldier, but it never really _stuck_ in his head, y'know? You just sort of nod your head and don't really listen. So when he got deployed in 2005, all he could think of was how he'd get to kill a bunch of Arabs. Like, every day. Go into buildings, tell people to shut up in loud, authoritative voices, shoot men wearing turbans, wielding AK-47s. It'd be awesome, listening to the guns going off, listening to the insurgents yelling in their foreign language, like, like nazis, or something. And he'd yell "grenade," and then he'd toss a fucking grenade and it'd blow a bunch of Muslims to hell and back!

Oh, and he'd protect liberty and the American people, sure.

As it turned out, he did a fuckton of the latter, not so much the shooting and destruction he _really_ wanted. Fucking boring. He sat at a checkpoint in Baghdad all day in the _sun,_ and people thought California was fucking hot, well, they'd never gone to the goddamned A-rab Middle East. Sometimes, when everything was quiet around him, he'd hear gunfire off in the city, see smoke from rising off the buildings and he'd just _curse_ and hit something with his foot. It seemed like everyone else was getting a piece of the action except him.

Y'know, fuck that description. _Most_ of war is waiting. Ten hours of boredom, ten minutes of violent terror. That's exactly how it went for Porky. Day like any other, and some lady in a burqa (hell, all Iraqi women were in burqas) approached the checkpoint. Sure, let 'er in. Porky didn't mind. Neither did Sarge. She passed. And then, she fucking pulled some cord in her robes and blew up half the checkpoint, along with herself. Porky got nailed in the head with a piece of somebody's bloody arm. It seemed like half the universe just blew up all at once; there were screams, moans of pain, gunshots going off randomly. Utter chaos. He fucking shit himself without even realizing it.

Porky didn't even get a _scratch. _Sarge got blown to pieces, though. They were still putting people's names in the newspaper back then, y'know, when they died.

After that it was like the whole Iraqi Republican Guard came back from the dead. Dozens of Arab men stormed the point with assault rifles, ululating and screaming bloody murder. Porky mowed down maybe four, didn't get hit once by their small arms. Still, just..._ holy shit. _Two years ago, and he could still remember it vividly. Maybe five minutes went by before a group of Iraqi APCs arrived and sent the insurgents packing. Killed maybe twenty of them, just in that one fire fight. Two Americans down, Porky not included.

He never saw action ever again.

Still, it fucked him up good. His tour ran out and he returned to the states, got himself an honorable discharge. His own personal shooting gallery back at that checkpoint caught the eye of certain organizations, though, and before he knew it he was running with this weird ass group of mercs.

_Mercenaries_ was a kind term for a group of gun-wielding soldiers who are all supposed to wear cartoon masks.

He tentatively signed on in 2006, and only recently they brought Porky out of reserve to help with a job; a fucking kidnapping. And he thought _Fuck, I've just signed up with a bunch of goddamned criminals. _But no, apparently they had a really rich benefactor and it was just business as usual. Someone was really, _really_ interested in distracting one Derek Reese for a day, and so that's what they were doing. Porky (you were supposed to address yourself by your mask; his was Porky Pig. Porky's real name was Wyatt) was working with Hillary Clinton to keep tabs on Reese throughout the day.

Like war, most of the job comprised of waiting around, doing absolutely nothing, and banging one's head against a wall for entertainment. Hillary got to have all the fun, talking to Reese and shit, looking scary. Porky himself was on stake-out at near the house where Reese lived. Nothing really going on there, though; or at least nothing he was aware of. Some blonde-headed girl wandered around for a while, and then a truck pulled up; three teenagers inside. They were disquieting to Porky, because he didn't know if they were involved in the rest of the operation or not. Apparently a larger contingent of mercs were getting ready to do an even bigger operation, and keeping Derek occupied was an auxiliary job to that... or something.

As always, the rest of the army got to have fun, while Porky got to watch teenagers. Nothing much happened. Two of the kids got outta the truck and went inside, while one of them stayed behind. Porky couldn't see much of what he was doing, though. Probably boring shit, like texting his friends, or something.

After a while he got the signal from Hillary to go to the rendezvous point; a restaurant in North Hollywood, near the neighborhood. Once that was done, they'd go back to the safehouse where Daffy Duck was keeping lil' Kyle and plan their next move.

Porky tore his mask off as he walked down the street; kept getting looks from pedestrians, no point in being the target of their questions. Hillary wouldn't like it, but fuck him. He felt pissed as hell, and he seriously wanted to consider jumping ship and just going home, pay or no pay. This shit rang illegal to him; kidnapping children as part of an _auxiliary_ operation? What the fuck was the _REAL_ op then? Destroying an orphanage? Now, granted, Porky was mostly sore that he didn't get to blow shit up himself, but he was no criminal just the same.

He grumbled and fished his cellphone up out of his jean pocket, his Looney Tunes mask dangling from the other hand. No one but Blackbeard (mask had an eyepatch and everything) knew who their rich contractor really was, too. It just unsettled Porky. He liked being around the guns and shit, and there always stood the promise of getting to shoot people, but the whole op was just too convoluted, too shady for him. Still...

He dialed a number into the phone and waited, holding the thing up to his ear. He liked his phone. It was a BlackBerry, the expensive kind; the kind executives and reporters fuckin' used. See, that's another thing that kept him going. All the benefits. Still didn't know what kind of cut he was gonna get, but it'd sure as fuck be better than his typical day at a nine-to-five.

"Yeah?" Daffy said on the other line.

"Yo, wassup?"

"Uh. Not much? Why're you calling?"

"Jus' checkin'. Y'know."

"Quit the gangster crap, Porky."

"Uh, sorry. How's lil' Kyle?"

A pause. "Still in storage. Why? Did Reese...?"

"Naw, naw, everything's cool."

"Good. Good, uh. Yeah."

"You okay, Daffy?"

"Yeah, yeah. Fine. I just... well, yeah. Whatever."

"Alright, you make sure he's comfy 'n shit, okay?"

"Oh, sure, I have been. Yeah."

"You okay?"

"You just asked that."

"I'm askin' again," Porky said, checking his watch. Yeah. Hillary would be at the restaurant by now. Best pick up the pace.

"Well, yeah, I'm fine."

"Havin' second thoughts?"

"What?" Daffy gulped; Porky could hear him do it. "No, no."

"Yeah you are."

"Well, jeez, man, I just don't like the idea of capping some five year old's ass."

Porky looked up at the street ahead of him. He had Reese's profile; you could recognize the guy a mile off in his fatigues, but Porky still wanted to check his surroundings every now and then. "You don't have'ta."

"Wha?"

"I mean, I don't like it neither, but we could just let Hillary do it, yeah?" Hillary was fuckin' weird like that.

"Uhhh, I'm just hopin' Reese doesn't do anythin' stupid, alright?"

"Sure, me neither." It was his turn to gulp. "Uh, right. Listen, I wanna talk to you later, Daffy. Like, without these freak show masks. Need to talk about this op 'n all."

"I think that's a good idea, Porky."

"Need to talk about how we're splittin' the cash, y'know? The ransom?"

"You really think Reese'll pay?"

"I've talked to Hillary. He'll pay alright."

"Heh, okay. Sure. What's your name, anyway?"

"Porky Pig." He thumbed the cellphone's red _end_ button and pocketed it. No reason to divulge anything over the fricken' phone. He kept walking.

Porky figured he'd stay on only as long as he had to; long enough to see Kyle returned to Derek, get the ransom money. Porky didn't know what kind of figure Hillary had made up, but it was sure to be a hefty fucking sum. They'd collect the cash and...

Well, from there, it'd really be up to chance, wouldn't it? Maybe he and Daffy could split it between themselves... No one would know it was _them_ if Hillary, creepy jackass, suddenly went skydiving without a parachute. Fuck the rest of the op, and fuck this organization, whatever the hell they were doing.

Feeling a lot perkier and more sure of himself, Porky continued along the street for a few minutes before reaching the restaurant. It was an Italian place called _The Fat Neapolitan. _The billboard above the entrance showed a jolly looking Mediterranean holding a pizza. True to the title, he was fat. Porky went inside.

It was just about past lunch hour for most businesses, so the restaurant was pretty empty inside except for a few people towards the back. Place had dim mood lighting and slow, almost riveting piano music playing somewhere. The smell of pizza and pasta filled his nostrils and made his stomach rumble enviously. Porky stuffed his mask in his tote bag and scanned the customers. No sign of Hillary... or at least his mask. The guy might be bumming out of the mask routine to grab a bite, after all. Maybe he could pay for _both_ their lunches.

Porky walked over to the reception desk and stood waiting for a few minutes as the frankly stunning lady behind it chattered on a phone. She looked suitably exotic, skin just dark enough that you'd know she wasn't from around here. Porky suddenly had the distinct urge to learn Italian-

The woman put the phone down and turned to him, smiling brightly. "Hi! Can I help you?"

She sounded like a regular downtown broad, no accent whatsoever. Porky felt like a fucking idiot. "Uh. Guy wearing a Hillary Clinton mask?"

The lady tilted her head, frowning for a few seconds as her memory churned for an answer. It came promptly; "Oh, him. He went out the backdoor just a few minutes ago. Somebody wanted to see him."

Alarm bells started ringing in Porky's head. His eyes went wide and he felt the distinct urge to grab his pistol from the tote bag. "Uhh, heh. _Who_ wanted to see him?"

The lady frowned ever deeper. She nodded her head forward, all conspiratorial now. "Uh, listen, I don't want any trouble, so please-"

"No trouble," Porky said, and he hoped to god he sounded reassuring. He wouldn't mind getting her number out of this.

She sighed. "He wore this green coat, like in the army. He looked really angry, too."

His head started to pound violently with a headache, and his pits got wet real fast. An itch cropped up on his back. Oh jeez. Fuck. _Fuck. _

The receptionist went on; "He insisted on seeing the guy you're looking for and they went out in the back alley next door." As she spoke, realization dawned on her face like a sunrise. "Ohmigod, you don't think-"

"I fuckin' hope not," Porky said, pulling his mask out of his tote bag. He slipped it on and pulled it tight around his neck. Blinked a few times to get the eye-holes orientated. "You didn't see me."

"Oh, heh, of course not." She looked ready to flee out the door.

Porky moved past the desk, receiving no resistance from the receptionist, and made his way towards the back of the restaurant at a running tilt. God, god, god, if Hillary was fuckin' _dead_ then that meant Reese wasn't gonna cooperate, which meant no ransom money, which meant Daffy would have to eighty-six that little boy, which meant- _Fuck. _ No. There had to be another way. Their fuckin' job was to keep Reese _distracted,_ not kill children, that- Okay, okay, just see the situation. It could be fine, y'know? All fine.

He weaved past a table, nearly sending a waiter sprawling onto the floor in his hurry. "Eh, excuse me!" the man called out. This time there existed an Italian accent, which only served to piss Porky off even more.

"Great place here," Porky yelled, continuing on. He ran through a door towards the back and found himself in a concrete corridor. It stretched on a few yards before ending in a gunmetal grey back door. There was a dumpster nearby, too, and at the end of the corridor was a corrugated metal loading dock.

No one around. Okay. Porky unzipped his tote bag and retrieved the Beretta 9mm SF handgun, along with a magazine of ammunition. He loaded the thing in and racked the slide, lowering the safety hammer. He had a silencer in the bag, but he figured he shouldn't waste anymore time. He dropped the tote bag off next to the door and started off down the corridor at a slow, cautious shuffle, holding the pistol aloft. Utter silence, except for the soft settling of his shoes on the ground, and the background noise of the restaurant behind him. Porky's own breathing was amplified to horrible effect underneath this goddamned mask, and he really wanted to take it off. His hands were fucking glued to the pistol, though.

Porky took a moment to stop. He stared down at the floor, at the cracks rivulating through it. He tried to take another step but found his legs unresponsive, made from stone. _No. _Stop. Don't freak out. Move.

You can do this. Keep walking. Porky took a deep breath, really deep. It steadied him. Somewhat. Maybe Hillary's alright. Maybe it's all cool. You need to check it out, though. That's all there is to it. Move those legs.

A light fixture buzzed above his head, like a voyeur as he walked under it. He came within a few feet of the back door, gave a cursory glance to the dumpster. Nothing. Alright. He pushed on the door, swinging it open and letting the cool breeze from the outside waft in. Stepping onto the threshold he scanned the alley; wet, derelict, smelly. Grand. Dark, too. He wished he had a flashlight.

Porky slowly walked outside, swinging the Beretta left and right to cover his flanks. Right was the street; an L.A. transit bus rumbled past, making a huge racket. Left was the rest of the alley. Darkness.

Okay. Moment of truth. He watched the back alley for a few seconds, stationary, waiting. He saw nothing; another dumpster obstructed his view. Past the dumpster, the alley continued forward, ending in a brick wall. Okay. Listen...

He listened. Heard nothing except water sloshing around underneath his feet. No voices. Go. _Go_. He went. He started walking. The dumpster loomed horribly ahead, maybe five or so feet away. Anything could be behind it. Or nothing. Nothing at all. Some kind of stain on the brick wall ahead of him; couldn't make it out, see what it was. Could be blood. Could be a stain of beer. Oh god. Oh, _Jesus. _

Porky abruptly swung himself around, gun outstretched and trembling, waiting to shoot. But nothing. The door still hung open. The L.A. street remained busy. Nobody.

Okay.

He picked up his pace a little, trying to control his weight distribution so he wouldn't be heard coming. His feet kept making splashy sounds on the ground, so that didn't really work out too well. Okay. Relax. His breath started coming out in slow, terrified gasps, like he was afraid of the act of breathing itself. His chest hurt; maybe it was psychological, maybe real, he didn't know. He couldn't hear himself think. He could only act, react, _do. _He did.

In this moment, as he started to run for the dumpster, whirling around it's rim, Porky realized he much preferred fighting ululating Iraqis to not knowing _anything_ about what he was getting himself into. He cleared the dumpster, looked past, and shrank back in terror at once. It was a silent thing, very quiet. He'd already known, though, and that messed him up inside more than the sight itself.

A man lay against the wall, next to the dumpster. He wore a dark sweatshirt, with deep pockets. Face nodded downwards, like he was only just tired, eyelids open and staring. A dark, volcanic red hole oozed blood from the back of his head, and a Hillary Clinton mask lay on the ground next to the dude's leg. A line of crimson ichor had etched itself into the side of the wall; a bullet hole further up, too. He'd been executed.

Porky stared at the man. He didn't know this man. He knew only the mask, and the mask was discarded on the floor, stamped on and dirty. Dead. Oh, _Christ. _No, no...

Hillary was the fucking _brains_ of this shit, he said he'd handle all the fine details... and those fucking brains were splattered on the wall, okay, okay, okay. Relax. First off: Secure the area. C'mon, army boy.

Porky turned around slowly, pointing the Beretta. This is the time when all serial killers make their move in the movies. When the body gets discovered.

What Porky saw was an empty corridor of filth and brick walls. He closed his eyes tightly and took off the mask, letting it tumble to the ground. Okay. Okay. No, wait. _Stop. _Think. He picked it up again and stuffed it in the tote bag. You can still do this. Figure it out with Daffy.

First, though... _First, _you get the fuck out of here.

Porky went down the alley, stuffing his hands in his pockets, along with the gun. He kept his pace quick, but unhurried. No reason to tempt fate. He'd gotten along well enough without panicking, no reason to-

There came a loud, metallic _click_ behind him, maybe twenty or so feet away. Porky immediately dropped the tote bag, mask, ammo and all, and began to run for his life. A puff of smoke erupted from one of the walls in the wake of a bullet flinging itself past his head. _SHIT. _

Another sharp, whining crack behind him; he heard it this time. Oh, shit. He kept his eyes glued ahead of him, but it was hard to keep track of where everything... what...? Who put that bench there? Who laid out all those boxes?! A million obstacles had cropped up suddenly ahead of him. Footsteps behind him, loud and unsubtle. FUCK-

Once more, a gunshot. Silencer. He's using a silencer. Run, RUN. A bullet whined past. Porky cried out in terror and forced his hands to move in confluence with his legs; they went for the Beretta slung into his jeans, ripped the thing out and pressed down hard on the safety. Everything blurred, his eyes went unfocused and blurry as he picked up speed and stumbled along; he forced himself to hop over a large box, amazing himself in that he even had the presence of mind to manage the feat without falling over. When he cleared the box he ducked behind it, hugging his legs close to his body, trying to catch his breath. He hadn't even run that far, and he... Okay, okay.

Faster footsteps. Very loud. Porky said a quick prayer and pushed the Beretta up against the rim of the box and blind-fired, the gun bucking painfully in his hand. Didn't like the awkward angle. Fuck it. He fired off a few quick blasts before scrambling up again to run.

Couldn't help looking back. He craned his neck back just a tad-

Reese was off to the side, running right after him. His trench coat billowed behind him like it belonged to some cheesy horror film monster. How'd he- _Fuck._ FUCK.

Porky looked back just in time to meet the bus stop bench head first. He tried to stop; couldn't, was going too fast. Head and wood collided with a loud _crack_ and he saw stars as he stumbled black, screaming curses. He couldn't see- was blind, he couldn't, couldn't-

Part of the bench exploded, cut in half under the force of a bullet. Porky hauled his own pistol up and started to fire again in Reese's direction. He felt something hot and painful strike him in the side like a fucking baseball going ninety miles an hour. Ignored it. Kept firing. _Boom, boom, boom._ He squeezed the trigger liberally, like he held an Uzi instead of a semi-auto, and after maybe seven bursts the gun clicked impotently.

Something sticky ran down Porky's side. Someone screamed; not him, nor Derek, it was a lady. People were running around like chickens with their heads cut off, trying to avoid the gunfire and save their own hides. A bus came hurtling down the road toward him, and Porky's eyes lit up. Not just a bus. Fuckin' salvation.

He blinked, trying to ignore the pain in his side, and looked down the alley. Derek was face down on the concrete, and at first Porky thought he'd killed him, but no; he'd just taken cover. His head perked up slowly and he regarded Porky with something akin to total, blackest hatred, eyebrows arched and lips curled downwards in a snarl.

He wanted to kill him.

Porky turned and stood up, stumbling his way around the bus stop bench, and he waved his hand, pistol and all, at the bus as it came toward him. He didn't bother to look back at Derek. He felt dream-like, clairvoyant. He was in so much pain, he couldn't think beyond what was in front of him.

The bus screeched and came to a rumbling halt. Holding his bleeding side with one hand and keeping the gun outstretched towards the driver, Porky ascended the steps and said, "Hey. Drive."

"Right you are!" the driver said, and he immediately started the bus again, shutting the doors behind Porky with a hissing of hydraulics. Porky walked a few steps and let himself fall into a seat marked _Reserve this seat for the crippled or elderly! _

He took a few moments to let himself breathe in precious, wonderful air and turned his head up to the window. Derek came running out the alley just as the bus started moving again. He scanned the windows, silenced Glock aimed, but he must not have seen Porky, cause he quickly stowed the pistol; that was all Porky got to see, cause the bus taxied suddenly into the street proper and picked up speed.

He lowered his head again and collapsed, this time not getting back up again.

-------------

John blinked as he opened his eyes. They were blurry, the images he saw too indistinct to make out. Everything... out of focus. Where...?

He felt a soft, rolling, very pleasant sensation in his shoulder. His bad, supposedly dislocated shoulder. He jumped a little at the sensation. The... sensation. He felt things in his arm. _He felt._ His arm was... fixed. He'd fixed it.

He just sat there, in the backseat of the Ram for a little while, processing this. He felt exhausted. All sweaty. A dull, throbbing pain existed in his shoulder, accompanying the feeling of _sensation. _Felt tired.

His lips hurt. He used a finger on his right hand to pat on it, and it came away drenched in blood. He touched the entire hand to it, palm first, where he'd stabbed himself a week ago. All bloody. He'd been biting his lips. Hard.

Oh jeez. He passed out. He'd passed out. The pain-- too much. John gulped, looked out the window for the first time, feeling utterly dazed, out of place, drunk. What... what had he been _doing_? Thinking. Dreaming? He dreamt of pain, suicide, horrible, horrible shit.

God... No, not _dream_. You didn't _dream._ You remembered.

Something started to buzz all around him. Very softly, subtly. His mind.

Nothing outside. The house was quiet. Birds chirped outside, the sun continued to shine, and all seemed right with the world. _What's taking them so long?_

How long had he been out of it? Why were they still inside the house...? He looked back through the truck, as if expecting to see Mike and Cameron there. They weren't. No one sat with him. John blinked again and sat back, way back in his chair. Stared at nothing. He wanted to talk to somebody. Anybody. Wanted to hear a voice. Feel a hand on him. Be comforted. He felt...

_He wanted to die. _

Strange. Those memories... bad, bad, bad. Really bad. Probably the pain, y'know, that brought them on. Yeah. He looked outside again, frowning. He tried not to move so much, still felt tired as all hell. God, what happened...? Nothing. Still nothing out there. Nothing at all.

Alright. Alright. He'd have to wait then. Stew. Suicide. Paaaain- No. _No, no, no. _No. No. Why were they taking so _fucking_ long? He wanted to see them, to hear them he wanted TO LEAVE TO GET OUT OF HERE FUCK- FUC-

The buzzing got a lot, a lot louder.

John started to hold onto his head. Some weird whimpering noises were escaping from his mouth and they were _really_ starting to freak him out. Okay. Calm down.

Calm... Stop remembering. You're okay. You're good. That's past you. No suicide. No pencils. Don't even think about it. Don't remember that day. That was a _bad_ day. You thought _bad_ things, and they were _wrong._ They have nothing to _do _with you. He tried to steady his breathing, and he found that insanely difficult. Thoughts kept swirling in and out of his mind, really bad ones. That day just felt... so _there_ now in his mind. That _morning._ After... after they killed Cromartie. With Sarah in bed all day, that morning he...

Too guilty. Too many bad feelings swirling around. He just left. Went to school, hurt himself for an hour. Blind to everything except his own morbid fascination with pain. He thought it would... eat him alive, or something, but it was just _one_ morning. Later that day he had fun and joked around with Riley, like nothing had happened, like he hadn't been stabbing himself with pencils a few hours earlier. And why? Why? All of that kept surging back up in his mind now, like a pool filling with water. He couldn't stop it. He kept shaking. Kept shaking, and he couldn't stop. He felt like he had to cry, or scream, hell, _talk to himself,_ but nothing would come. Only... bullshit.

John peered down at his newly mended arm. What would have happened if his arm... got even worse when he tried to... fix it? Would it have broken? Would it have snapped in half all comical-like? And how would that-

Oh god, stop it, please stop it. He felt _so_ fucked up all of a sudden and it was _scaring_ him. Just stop. Please stop. You're okay, man, you're fine, it's okay, really. _Really. _Take a step back. Take a step back and breathe. Relax. Stop thinking about pain, about suicide, holy crap. Why did he feel this way now...? Everything kept spinning around...

Bunch of stuff. His arm. The whole day, yesterday night with Cameron, his self-deprecation over the hospital debacle... Mike coming onto him _again._ Y'know, sometimes he just thought... _My life is a circus. Nothing good will happen. Hell, it's written on the wall, even for _me_ to see. No. No more. Why not end it? _

He was slowly going crazy again.

He had to take a step back. Relax.

God, things like this led to incidents like him running away. Or trying to commit suicide, like a week ago. Lead poisoning. What a fucking crock.

Stop thinking, stop... thinking. Breathe. Relax.

Music. Get some music on. He reached up for the dial on the radio.

Someone tapped on the window. John shook convulsively at the noise, made a noise in his throat, and he whirled around to... see a face outside outside, frowning in at him through the tinted window. He lurched back at the sight; it wasn't, wasn't... Cam... who...

Blonde hair, blue eyes, nice face. Soft face. Nice...

Riley. Oh god.

Oh, man... Had she been watching? John gulped and aired out his jacket a bit, letting some wind up to cool his skin. No. No. She just got here. She only just got here. Hadn't been watching. No.

What... what had he been...

Riley smiled. Timidly. John gulped again and let her in, scooting to the side of his seat so she had room. She sniffed conspicuously, but didn't say anything. John felt relieved for that much, at least. What was she doing here...?

"Hey," he said, trying to make himself --force himself to-- smile. "Didn't know you'd be so close."

"Yeah, I, uh... just wanted to talk to you. Real quick." She ruffled her hair a bit, seeming a tad frazzled herself. John doubted that. Compared to what he'd just been feeling, nothing could compare. He felt like he'd been on the verge of falling apart.

John blinked. She'd kept calling him. She wanted to "talk" to him. And now she looked like...

Oh god. She wasn't breaking... No, she couldn't... she loved him...

He'd go berserk. Oh Christ.

Riley suddenly frowned at him again. "Uh, you okay?"

John shook his head. "Yeah, I'm fine. Fine. What's up? Hey."

She cocked an eyebrow. "Not much. You..." She hemmed and hawed a bit. "Okay, I'm _sorry, _but I was... I was standing outside a little before I knocked, and you looked absolutely..." She was trying to find the polite word for it, and failing miserably.

John said nothing. What could he say? Nothing. Oh man, she probably thought he'd had a panic attack, or something.

... and that was exactly what he just fucking had.

She stopped trying and merely said, "Are you okay?" She raised her brows, looking worried out of her freaking skull.

"Yeah. Perfect." His eyes flitted towards the house. Still nothing. Thank god. "What's up, Riley?"

Riley's shoulders sagged, and she ignored the question. "John... don't tell me you're okay just to make me feel... y'know, _reassured, _cause I know it's bullshit."

John opened his mouth, and she silenced him by holding up a hand. She leaned in close and placed the hand on his lap. "Are you okay?"

He looked away from her. He felt... Indignant. But glad. Glad she was taking control out of his hands. She knew. She knew things weren't _fine_, that they weren't _okay. _

He didn't even know why this had happened. He just suddenly... it was his arm, it was really his arm. The pain, him passing out, bringing back memories of... _experimenting_ with trying to commit suicide, of... it wouldn't go away now, and he couldn't stop _thinking_ about it all. Made him crazy, made him want to... scream.

Riley nodded silently. His silence was answer enough. "Hey. It's alright."

"It's not..." John searched for the proper words, ones that wouldn't make him look like he was losing it. "It's not what you think, I'm just... I don't know."

She glanced towards the house, and then quickly back at him. Then she leaned closer, until she sitting right next to him, touching him with her body, her arm, her head. "The usual?" she whispered.

John nodded. Yeah. It really was.

"Talk to me. Tell me." God, she could be gentle when she wanted to be. She often wasn't. Weird.

"I can't," John said.

She nodded. "Do it in... a way that doesn't spoil the big secret, then."

"I still can't."

"John..."

He looked at her. She looked... pleading. Really worried. John mentally replayed his panic attack, watched himself grab his head, whimper, bounce around the car seat as he tried to make sense of what had just happened to him, being _unable_ to.

God. No wonder she was worried.

She sighed. "Look. Are they... What's going on in there?"

"Nothing."

"Why're you in the back seat?"

"I'm waiting for Cameron."

"And that other guy I haven't met."

"He's her friend."

"What're they doing in there?"

John had to laugh at that suggestion. Oh _god,_ if only she knew. He giggled.

Riley frowned. "_What_?"

"Nothing, that's just... heh. Not what you think..."

She rolled her eyes. "Whatever. Point is, John, you're obviously not enjoying yourself around them, to put it lightly."

"No, I'm fine."

"John, don't bullshit me, you looked ready to check yourself into Pescadero right there." Without warning, as he looked at her, she leaned in again and kissed him on the lips. He blinked, and kept his eyes closed tight as she stayed there, with him. John felt himself loosening, his muscles stopping that horrible tensing he'd felt when he started to go bonkers. He smiled, sighed against her mouth. He'd been stupid to think she'd come here _just_ to tell him they were through... heh.

He opened his eyes when she backed up a little. There was a little blood on her lips, which she failed to notice. John suddenly remembered he'd been biting his lips and suddenly sucked on his lower lip, immediately tasting an unpleasant, coppery flavor. He did his best to ignore that.

Riley went on as if nothing happened. "I don't like it when you lie to me, so... try not to, okay?"

"I'm just having a hard time..." What could he fucking tell her? That he kept thinking about committing suicide and he had _really_ lucid memories --or dreams, maybe-- of himself trying to do just that? No. He kept it simple.

"Yeah, I... noticed. But you won't tell me why and that really bothers me."

John shrugged. "Sorry. I just don't want you to worry."

"I can't help it..." She sighed. "But yeah, I... know how it can be sometimes."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. I sort of yelled at my mom... _foster_ mom the other day. Had a bit of an 'episode' there myself."

"Why?"

Riley smirked at him. "Scratch your back, John, if you scratch mine."

"Then forget it."

"_Wow,_ you really don't wanna give it up, do you?" She turned to him and shook her head gently. "It's okay, I guess. I don't have to know. Are you okay?"

"No." Why lie when she already knew? "No, I'm really not."

"Then let's get outta here." She nodded to the front seat. "Drive."

What was she...? Jeez. "Riley, I really can't. I told you I'd be unavailable today."

"Screw that, John. It's obvious that _they_ have something to do with it, so let's get away for a little, huh?"

John shook his head. "No, no, it's okay. I mean, _they're_ okay. They don't have anything to do with it." He sighed. "Really. And y'know, don't worry about it, it's okay. My problem, not yours."

That was the biggest fucking lie of the century, and he didn't care.

"I'm gonna get nowhere with this, am I?" Riley said cooly.

John stared back at her evenly. "No. I'm sorry."

"It's alright..."

He took a shaky breath and smiled at her. "Can we just... y'know, sit here for a bit? I-I'm sorry I can't, y'know, go out with you today or anything, really, but... y'know, let's just sit a bit?"

Riley nodded, and she got even closer to him. They leaned their heads together in unison, making John smile. Yeah. Okay. He could calm himself. Sure.

"Sure. We don't have to talk, either."

He didn't. They didn't.

------

And it really, really calmed him down. He didn't think _anything_ would, not with how much he'd been bugging out, but just _being_ with someone, being close to someone worked wonders on making him forget his troubles and just... not worry. His mind still churned constantly, though, trying to figure out just what the hell happened, but otherwise, right now, he felt...

Sleepy. Heh.

He felt like sleeping there, just falling asleep with her. She kept running her hand along his chest, his belly, softly and regularly enough that he'd be surprised if she stopped. Her eyes were shut tight, and he just watched her a while. She wasn't asleep, much like him. That was okay, though.

He'd really been out of it, hadn't he? It was easy to see that now.

"How bad was I?" John asked, his voice low, barely audible. If someone were in the front seat, they would have heard nothing.

Riley stirred slightly. "I'm not a good judge of that. Don't focus on it."

"But-"

She nodded her head at him, eyes still closed. "You won't even tell me what it was about, John. I say forget it."

He shrugged against her. "Just tell me what I was doing, okay?"

"You... kept jerking around, like you had a seizure. I'm... exaggerating a bit, though." She opened her eyes and looked at him, vision locking suddenly on his bloody lips. "You sure you don't want to leave?"

Christ, he would have loved to at this point. That Terminator Mike talked about was no _oh, maybe tomorrow_ matter, though. It had to be dealt with. Moreover, more than anything, he wanted to do something positive and _real,_ and not just focus on...

"Sorry."

She went back to petting him. "Fine. Just... y'know, call me every once and a while, alright? I wanna know that you're okay."

"It's not that bad." In retrospect, he was pretty fucking used to neurotic episodes by this point. He had _tics,_ maybe. First it was running away, feeling inadequate. Now he just didn't want to live sometimes.

Which led him to think, _what's next? _

"Where're you gonna be? Maybe we can hook up."

"I don't think it's one of those situations, Riley."

"Ohhh_,_ it's a _situation_, huh?"

"You know what I mean." He smirked. She could be really annoying when she wanted to be, in an amusing sort of way.

"But you'll call me, right? Maybe lemme check up on you, make sure you're okay?"

"You act as if I'm a friggen' basket case, Riley."

She shrugged. "Fair description."

"Hey!"

She giggled. "Promise."

"Okay, okay, I'll call you."

"Thank you. You still okay, John?"

"Yeah." Soon as he got to commanding again, planning this take-down, he'd probably be alright. Or occupied, at least.

Probably. "Yeah, I'm okay."

"Alright." She pecked him once on the cheek and smiled gently at him. "I'm gonna go before your sister comes around, I don't think she likes me very much."

John cocked an eyebrow. "Gee, you think?"

"Go screw yourself," Riley said, laughing embarrassedly.

"See you later."

She left, exiting the car and heading across the street, presumably where she'd left her bike. He watched her look both ways before crossing, watched her cast one more worried glance back that instantly made him wince and wish he'd told her everything. A car drove by, obstructing John's view of her, and when it had passed she was gone.

John laid back against the seat and stared at the ceiling for a little while instead.

------------

They, the pair of them, stopped at the doorway and looked at each other for a few, uncomfortable seconds.

"We got everything?" Mike asked.

"Yes."

"Okay."

"I don't know what I was doing, Michael. I'm sorry."

"I don't want to talk about it. And we're not telling John."

"No. We aren't."

Mike hissed and got his inhaler out of his pocket; for some reason he felt he needed it. "Let's just forget it. We're still friends."

"Yes, we are. Good friends."

"Not _that _good." He had to laugh.

Cameron made herself chuckle, although she really didn't get the joke. It didn't matter much to her. Mike would still tell John, and John would still do what Cameron expected him to do, and so things would work out anyway.

A shame, though. She could have avoided all of this if she hadn't malfunctioned back upstairs, with Riley.

They walked on to the car, went inside. John's lips were bloody and cracked, and he was exhausted. Mike and John didn't look at each other, and John only tersely acknowledged Cameron's presence. Cameron expected a very, very tense mission if none of them reconciled.

She sat back with John, and Cameron noticed an indentation in the seat next to him, not yet righted. Someone else had been sitting here. Cameron put a hand on John's hand, which made him smile, like it was calming for him.

Mike drove.

John had excessively high levels of stress. She looked at him again, and he looked back at her, frowning. He knew she knew. He'd grown wise to her ways as of late.

Meanwhile, Mike just thought about what had happened back in the house, and his situation. He could feel John staring at the back of his head, like he already knew. He wanted to admit to it, but he knew that was stupid.

"Can you turn on the radio?" John asked after about five minutes of silence. No one answered him, and there came a few more seconds of quiet until Mike obliged him. Cameron picked up the song almost immediately. A classic. The Beatles. We All Lived in a Yellow Submarine.

She sighed.


	8. At Your Head

**No Trespassing**

Chapter Eight: At Your Head

A/N: Venture Tower is not a real building. It's a reference to another work of fiction, which won't play a role in this at all, so don't worry. Also, kudos to whoever can guess exactly _which _work of fiction the building is from.

John stepped out of the truck and looked up. Way up. Maybe the highest he'd ever looked. Around him, cars noisily passed to and fro, disgorging choking smoke and all the nice little noises that go with it. A parade of people flowed down the sidewalk in front of him, all indistinguishable from each other, forming a colorful, uneven living creature.

Mike killed the engine, and a nearby rent-a-cop glowered meaningfully. John couldn't have been less interested.

"Dude..."

Mike stepped in line with him. "Yeah?"

John glanced at him. "You said we were going to a bank."

"Right."

They both looked up again at the massive skyscraper. It was easily the tallest structure in Los Angeles, dwarfing all the other buildings the same way Jupiter dwarfs the rest of the planets. It was an alien figure to John at the same time. He'd been so surprised when he spotted it upon coming forward in time.

Still... "This is Venture fucking Tower, not... a bank."

Mike rolled his eyes. "Yeah, I know. It _has_ a bank inside it, though."

"Among other businesses," Cameron added, joining them.

"My god," John said theatrically, "She speaks." He smirked and looked around, expecting to at least get a giggle out of Mike, but he was stony as Cameron. He suppressed a sigh. The whole trip to downtown had been unpleasant, to put it lightly. Between him being a douche to Cameron and... well, refusing to entertain Mike, they were both probably really mad at him. Almost made him wish they'd watched his little episode in the truck instead of Riley; at least then they'd be sympathetic.

He sighed openly. Sooner or later they'd have to start communicating again, focus on the mission. Maybe if he set a few ground rules on what they could and couldn't discuss...

The security guard strode over to them through the thronging crowds, waiting until he was right on top of them before saying; "You kids know there's a thirty minute parking restriction on that spot, right?"

Mike blinked confusedly, looking over to John for guidance. He cleared his throat and put up the most nonchalant "you can shove it, man" face he could muster. "Yeah."

The cop nodded. "Right, well, if you're still there by then I'm gonna have to give you a ticket. Wouldn't want that, would we?"

John shrugged. "Who would?"

He seemed flustered for a moment. "Uh. Nobody, exactly." He waved his hand at the Ram. "It's just used a lot."

"We get it. We'll be outta here soon." He stole a quick glance at Mike. "Oh, uh, by the way?"

The guard fidgeted, but nodded his head. "What?"

"What floor is Venture Bank on?"

He stared up at the superstructure of Venture Tower, which easily broke a hundred stories. It started off pretty fat at the bottom and remained so for maybe twenty five stories before narrowing suddenly, and then narrowing off once again even further up. From the base of the building rose four identical spires, all gothic inspired. John didn't know if they were for show or what, but it gave the whole thing a rather imposing visage. An identical set of spires sat on penthouse level. And they built this place in seven years. Amazing.

"Uh, y'know, funny you should ask that, a couple of hitmen robbed it a while back." He gazed back upon John and then Cameron, all suspicious like. "Right. It's on the the forty fifth floor, can't miss it since it takes up the whole damn place."

"How would a gang be able to avoid security that high up?" Cameron asked.

The guard blinked, doubtless surprised with the bluntness of the question. John winced. Fucking glitch. If that explosion hadn't screwed her chip up John was certain she would have been flawless by now in blending in, actually seeming human most times rather than by accident.

"We've been asking ourselves that a few days now, miss. Cause it's one thing to get in, rob the place, and kill a man, and it's something else to get out scott free. And they've done this shit twice now."

"They might have had someone on the inside helping them," she said.

The guard shook his head a tad, like a dog shaking itself of fleas. "Wait, are you guys like high school reporters or some shit, cause I don't know anymore than the last guy and I don't know why you'd be grilling me when you could be-"

John put up his hands. "Hey, it's okay, really, thanks for helping." He patted Mike and Cameron and started walking towards the front doors. They --after a brief, confused look-- followed, leaving the cop to grumble to himself on the sidewalk.

"Way to be subtle, Cam," John murmured when they were at least --somewhat-- unable to be heard.

"We're here to gain information," she said.

"Yeah," said Mike.

John rolled his eyes. Fucking useless, all of this. He...

He needed to think for a minute. He cracked his neck, blinked a few times, and pushed open the lobby doors. For all of Venture Tower's splendor outside, the lobby was really understated. There was a small antechamber after the front doors, with a simple security desk, flanked by two metal detectors. John stared at them and reckoned that Cameron was probably right; the crooks had outside help. How that tied into Samuel the Terminator leading them around for whatever twisted reason, he had no idea.

The whole lobby was gun metal grey, with a metallic sheen covering nearly every surface. Really slick and almost painful to look at, actually, like the designer wanted to turn people off from coming any further inside as soon as they entered. No plants, no marble, nothing fancy at all. You could hear some murmuring talk in the background and the click-and-roll of elevator doors, but other than that the place was pretty quiet. With the expectation of lots of people vanquished and the decor, place was seriously creepy.

The group went past the security desk. The guard behind it wore a pair of aviators and merely bowed his head slightly in acknowledgement of them. John did his best not to hesitate before going through the metal detector. What if it was designed to pick up kevlar, which he wore underneath his jacket?

That'd be a laugh. _I'm just really paranoid, officer? _Heh.

Cameron went through first...

John's eyes widened. He forgot all about kevlar.

Oh, hell-

_Ddeeeeee_

The Terminator backed up suddenly and looked back at John in confusion. Did she not fucking remember?! Mike abruptly slapped his forehead.

"Don't move!" The guard practically leaped over the desk and started to approach them, his hands moving down to his hip where John guessed a pistol or something was concealed. He couldn't see a holster.

John put up the lamest doofus grin he could and looked around to check if they were making a scene. A few people were watching. Fucking Cameron.

"I should have said something, my fault," John said as the guard stopped ahead of them, folding his arms. "My sister, s-she has a metal plate in her head. She fell." He looked at Cameron, a memory suddenly clicking. "Uh, hard."

The guard nodded at Cameron. "This true, young lady?"

"Very hard."

Mike, god love him, stayed totally quiet. John flicked his gaze over to him and suddenly realized that the kid was wearing one of John's shirts, a faded green one with long sleeves. What...

"Regardless," the guard said, "I think I'm gonna have to search you. Nothin' bad, just a..." he gulped suddenly. "... regular pat-down. Y'don't mind?"

They left all the guns in the truck. The guard was probably more worried about getting pinged for a harassment suit, though.

"No, I don't mind," said Cameron. With perfect posturing she turned, spread her legs slightly, and put up her arms onto the wall. John wanted to fucking shoot her.

The guard gave a suspicious cough, but commenced searching her, lightly flicking his hands over her clothing. He conspicuously avoided her chest, which crazily brought out a sigh of... something from John. Not sure if it was relief. While the guy patted her down, John stole a look at Mike. That was definitely _his_ shirt. What the hell.

After a minute the guard coughed again and turned to John. "She's clean. I'm really sorry about this, it's just we had a really bad robbery last week-"

"I know," said John, wishing they didn't have to waste time down here. He said, fucking said _I want this fucking robot dead by tonight,_ and they were already in the afternoon with zero leads and one hundred precent animosity between all three of them. His head hurt.

"... and we can't take chances. I'm also gonna have to ask your business here in Venture Tower."

John decided to stick with the high shool journalist stuff the outside rent-a-cop mentioned.

"Which school?"

"Campo de Cahuega High?" John said. Shouldn't have said it like a question, shit. He hadn't been there in two months, though.

"Mm. What's the story about?"

_Fuck you, you fucking- _Okay, whoa, relax, John. Just answer his questions, no point in hating him over it. "It's a special interest piece on crime in Los Angeles," he looked up at the ceiling of the lobby, constructing the lie, "We, uh, figured the bank robbery here would give us..." Think of something pretentious... "... special insight into the criminal mind." Finish strong. "We think it's gonna be really good."

He smiled.

The guard didn't. "Uh, right, just don't annoy anyone while you're up there, mkay?"

"Sure." _Fuck you. _

He pointed toward the elevators. "Bank's on the 45th floor."

"Thanks." _No, really. _

They walked through, the metal detector beeping again. When they'd cleared it, Michael folded his palms over the back of his neck and sighed. "That almost went to shit real fast."

"Sorry," Cameron said.

John stayed silent, stewing.

"I hate cops," Mike muttered. "I hate the way they treat people like they're all scum and shit... " He shook his head. "Sorry."

"What would you know about police?" John asked lowly.

Mike frowned at him. "They... uh, haven't made a good impression is all."

They stopped in front of the elevator terminal and John pressed the down button. God must have been watching, because the doors opened promptly, no fuss or wait. They went in and Cameron immediately punched in their destination.

Doors rolled shut, and with a slight jolt they were moving.

"You're wearing one of my shirts," John said at once.

Mike looked down at himself, then back up. John looked at it too. He'd only worn it infrequently, definitely wasn't "a favorite" or some shit, but some permission taking would have been nice. Mike shrugged, smirking. "Who else could I have taken from?"

"I dunno, Derek?"

"I don't know where his room is."

"You didn't know where mine was either."

"I asked Cameron."

Cameron stared blankly at the wall, evidently lost in her own little world again.

"Then why didn't you ask about Derek?" John said.

Mike opened his mouth and closed it, his face flushing suddenly. "I... Look, does it matter?"

John turned sharply to him. "Yes."

"Why?"

"I dunno," he admitted. John's hands balled up into fists and tightened painfully, especially his left.

The ticker read _15._

Mike shook his head. "You don't _know?"_

"No." He gulped, nodding for extra emphasis. He wasn't thinking. He really wasn't at all. He had a ton of pent up rage over today; at Mike, at Cameron, at himself, every _tiny_ snag they encountered just added to it all. He wanted something easy to latch onto and yell at, and this was it. Pathetically enough.

Mike laughed harshly, turning from him. "Y'know, sometimes I really wonder."

"Wonder what?"

He nodded at John, his lips curling into a snarl. He tilted his head. "How _you_ become the leader of the human race, what else? I-I mean, you don't see _General _Connor complaining about people taking his stuff like a brat."

John's knuckles cracked.

Mike turned to Cameron. "And he wouldn't be chasing blonde bimbos either, eh? He'd have better things to worry about, right? Hell, you spent more time with him than anybody if what he tells me is true, so you'd know."

She didn't respond, much less acknowledged he existed. Mike blinked slowly and glanced up at the elevator ticker. _23. _

John nodded simply. "No, I guess he would have better things to worry about. Cause he doesn't have faggots going around everywhere stealing his clothes."

Mike whipped around and shoved John hard in the chest, slamming him back against the elevator wall. Pain shot up his spine in a wave, but he ignored it as he pushed off and went lunging into Mike. He'd been caught off guard but, really, he'd been expecting it at the same time. He had to work hard to stop himself from grinning.

With his depleted stamina and asthma, Mike didn't stand much of a chance. John carried him against the other wall and shoved him down to the floor. He had to restrain himself from fighting at his dirtiest; he could fucking kick the kid in the face, or in the stomach, he could really fuck him up good, but he _had_ to restrain himself.

Mike apparently had no such scruples. In an obviously practiced maneuver he swept his legs around, careening into John's like a pair of bowling balls. With the instability of the elevator and the suddenness of the attack, he went down easily, causing Mike to cringe as John's whole body came tumbling down.

He didn't care. He actually liked this, in a warped, retarded sort of way.

John pushed up off the floor with his hands and sat his elbows on top of Mike's chest, digging into it. Both elbows. Mike's eyes bulged and he wheezed pathetically in pain. His hands smacked the bottom of the elevator and tried to wrench John off of him, but he kept steady.

John leaned his head down close. "You like this, huh? You _love it. _Or," he tilted his head, grinning, "Would you rather be on top?"

"_Dude, what the FUCK IS WRONG WITH YOU?!"_

Mike screamed it, his voice going high and shrill. John winced.

"Don't fucking steal from me," he said.

_"I did NOTHING to you, you're fucking crazy, John!"_

Mike wrapped his arms around John's and pushed his whole body up, sending the two of them sprawling to the side. John fell back and quickly scrambled up, sitting on all fours. Mike merely laid on his stomach, and tried to catch his breath.

"Oh, I'm crazy?" John raised a hand, almost conversationally. "What do you _mean_ you did _nothing_?"

Mike canted his head up, glaring. "Dude, John... take... take a step back, okay?"

"Why should I? Everyone keeps trying to fucking mess with me, and you're the _worst!_"

"I-"

John raised his fist menacingly towards Mike's head, quieting him and making him shrink back.

John took in a rasping breath and looked up at Cameron. She'd turned her head lazily to watch the fight and did absolutely nothing to break it up. Her eyes still had that glazed look over them. Whatever.

"You... both of you _hate_ me for wanting to love someone who's _normal, _unlike you. If you think _I'm _crazy, how about you look in a mirror?"

"John, I-I don't care about-"

He planted his hand on his head, shutting his eyes tight. "Yes you do."

"_No I don't!" _

"Yeah, _right._"

"Please, shut up," Mike said, his voice breaking. He blinked rapidly and looked at him. "John, I know you-... you're mad about... I don't know, I don't understand, but, y'know, I..." he licked his lips. "I don't hate you."

"Don't treat me like a _fucking_ head case, I'm _fine, _I-..."

He stopped and slowly righted himself, sitting indian style on the floor. He looked down. He couldn't say he did this over a fucking shirt, cause that wasn't it _at all. _He was pissed as hell at these people, and...

And you're suicidal and incredibly insane?

No. Do not doubt, do... Okay. Step back. Wait.

John blinked. "Wa-why'd you hit me?"

"You called me a faggot," Mike answered easily.

"Oh yeah." He looked back down. Mike kept breathing hard. "I, uh..."

Cameron tilted her head up at the ticker. "Forty four..."

Oh, shit.

John scrambled up off the floor and dusted himself off. The worst he'd taken was a bruise on his back, probably. Maybe. And a head full of guilt.

Oh god. Why'd he have to start?

Mike righted himself in a similar fashion and fished his inhaler out of his jeans, taking two quick puffs from it. He swiped a hand over his hair and took a deep, shuddering breath.

They both consciously took a step from each other.

Way to go, Johhny, you psychopathic asshole.

Another part of him persisted in thinking _Mike had it coming. _It started to occur to John that maybe the source of this group's problems was him. Who else started? He didn't even like that shirt. _He_ was the one who started shit. Maybe if...

And then you go thinking suicide again, so _stop it. _

Oh, god.

He looked at Mike and felt his throat build up with something.

The elevator let out a cheerful _ding_ and the doors slid open. The group stepped out.

Venture Bank was a boiler plate money-lending establishment, except it was forty five stories up instead of on the ground. There were a bunch of booths lining one wall with tellers and all that happy crappy, a security door to the side, and a bunch of steel stairwells at the far east end. The main chamber leveled off on the west end to a simple hallway that probably led to a few offices. The bank itself had stark white flooring and tons of the usual decorum.

A security guard frowned at them, making John's eye twitch. Instead of him coming to them, though, Mike suddenly ran over, leaving John and Cameron behind.

"Is there a bathroom in here?" he asked.

The guard grunted. "Down the hall to the west, it's the first door on the right."

"Thanks." He stole a look at John and took off.

Cameron blinked and glanced at him suddenly. "Is he okay?"

John didn't answer immediately, instead looking over to a bunch of wide-glass windows lining the walls. He wondered how easily one would shatter if you took a running leap at it.

--------------

Mike burst into the bathroom, made tracks toward the nearest toilet, and promptly vomited in it.

This wasn't a matter of emotion, or anything. Purely physical. The fight left him feeling wretched as fuck.

All the same, he expected to start crying at once. He kneeled there in front of the toilet, hands wrapped around the porcelain base, throwing his cursory hospital breakfast into the drink, and he knew the waterworks would start soon. It had to. Obligations, and all that.

_You were asking for it. You shouldn't have fucking pushed his buttons, you... deserved-_

Mike threw up again, harder. This time it was out of disgust. FUCK no. Deserving? What the fuck are you, a prison bitch? John was out of his goddamned mind, he started it, he _wanted_ to fight, Mike just got angry and... y'know, things happen. He deserved none of that... well...

He gasped and pressed his legs together. Jesus Christ...

Mike raised his head and stared at the wall.

He felt lost, confused and frightened out of his goddamned mind. Nothing felt right anymore. John went from soft and... well, yeah, you went through this before. Mike sniffed. His head hurt terribly, and he wanted to reach for the inhaler again to calm himself, but the doctors said only two per four hours, or something, he didn't know and he didn't follow their directions anyway most of the time, so...

Well, Mike, you can go on being everyone's bitch and punching bag or you can start to get angry. It's really quite simple.

The latter choice seemed really, really appealing right now.

He wasn't crying. Not even slightly.

---------

The bank teller grimaced; she probably wanted to smack John in the face, actually, but her position prevented her from doing that. "An 'inside-man?'"

John shrugged. At least she was _talking_ to him, unlike all the other tellers who just blew him off at once. "You don't think it's a possibility?"

"Sir, with all due respect, we lost a valued member of our security last week and such..." she chose her words carefully, eyes darting from side to side,"... idle speculation is, frankly, somewhat disrespectful, don't you think?"

"Oh, no, no, I was just asking..."

She laid in with the clincher; "The answer is no, then. _No_ one would betray us like that. We pay our employees very well, and we'd... know if someone was taking... pay-offs, which is ridiculous. Anything else?"

He sighed. "Sorry for asking."

"I have real business to attend to, sir."

After the whole shitstorm with Mike, John was still feeling pretty rotten. Getting patronized did _nothing_ to help that, but he managed to keep his cool. Sort of. He pushed away from the desk and walked back over to Cameron, shrugging.

"She doesn't know," Cameron said.

"I think she suspects." He turned and leaned on the window alongside her.

"Why?"

John nodded toward the bank tellers, at no one in particular. "Everyone else shot me down as soon as I came to them asking about the robbery. I guess they're all still feeling emotional about it. But _she_ sounded like she wanted to prove something. I dunno, it's weird. If it were me I'd be welcoming suggestions."

"And it stands to reason that the gang had inside help," Cameron said.

"Exactly. How else would you pull this shit off so flawlessly?"

Cameron looked at him. "They had a T-800 helping them. It would have worked no matter what."

John shut his eyes tight and banged his head a little back onto the window. "You get what I mean, though..."

"Yes."

He scratched his chin, something suddenly occurring to him. He rolled it around in his mind for a minute, considering what Cameron might say. "Now that you mention it, why go to the trouble of it all?"

Cameron made a questioning sound.

"Why does a highly advanced cyborg with language synthesis and a body Muhammad Ali would have killed for need a bunch of gangsters helping him out? I mean..." he sighed, "You guys aren't exactly built for subtlety and master planning."

"His organic shell is gone. That may factor into his reluctance to operate by himself."

"Are you kidding? Having no skin just means no one can identify him. It's easier for him."

Cameron stood up from the wall. "Does it matter?"

John sighed. "I guess not. It's just weird... Anyway, supposing there is an inside man, how the hell are we supposed to figure out who it is? They wouldn't confess."

"Not unless they were under extreme duress."

He rolled his eyes. "You'd have to torture everyone in the fucking bank to figure _that_ one out."

Cameron said nothing.

"I guess we just go on talkin' to people. Maybe if we knew who died... who knew him, maybe they'd be willing to talk." John shook his head. "That fucking teller knew something, I can feel it."

Something green moved off to the side of John's vision. He flicked his eyes over and practically groaned. Here came Mike. He immediately felt himself flush in the face, felt his skin go a little colder. That whole thing in the elevator was... retarded, without question. He didn't want to apologize, though. Mike and Cameron still thought he was nuts, and he _wasn't_ fucking nuts.

Still... Y'know, sometimes he just wondered what it would be like to be in Mike's position, always being the odd man out, loving something he could never have... then having to get yelled at and called horrible names.

John blinked. Actually, that sounded really familiar. Ah, hell. You know what, Johnny, stop being such a lame-ass bitch and accept when you're wrong. You didn't _need_ to make that fight happen, and yet you did it anyway. You were messed up at the time, wanted to pass the buck and blame somebody else, but it's all you.

All you.

All- John rubbed his eyes. He wasn't gonna get all introspective just yet. He'd take this shit one step at a time.

Mike stopped ahead of them and immediately looked away from John and at Cameron. "She still spazzing out?"

John ignored the question, stepped forward, and wrapped his arms around Mike, hugging him. No one said a word for a few seconds until he spoke up. "Uh. Sorry."

Mike blinked and kept his arms exactly where they'd been, saying nothing. He'd suddenly stopped breathing.

Not a good sign. John cleared his throat and pressed onward, not letting himself get daunted. Fuck, this was awkward. "I-I shouldn't have done that to you, really, I'm just feeling a little screwed up today and it's not your fault or anything. Okay? I'm really sorry."

Cameron stared at the two of them with great interest, her doe eyes having returned to the fore.

John abruptly let go of Mike, feeling like he'd done something wrong. He'd expected the kid to --eagerly-- return the gesture; that'd make it run smoother, all of it. Instead he... just stood there.

Oh, man.

Mike looked down at the floor, taking in a deep breath. "Okay," he whispered.

John saw red. Just; red, all of a sudden, all there in front of him. Swimming, painful, everywhere. And then it was gone just as quick. This wasn't gonna get healed over a hug. Mike looked downright beside himself.

"You guys talk to anyone?" Mike asked, sounding normal again.

"Uhh, I... yeah, just a second ago. Mike-"

"I said okay. It's cool. You're forgiven. Really." He turned and nodded to a hallway off to the west. "I wanna check the office of that guy who got shot last week, follow me."

He walked. John stood there at the window, feeling his heart beat in his chest and nothing else for a few seconds. A shuddering sigh escaped his mouth and he turned to follow, Cameron coming along a second later. God, she was fucked up. She didn't _do_ anything _right_ anymore.

"You never hug me anymore," she said passingly.

See?

-------------

They stopped in front of a solid oak door labeled "Security Manager." No name tag. Maybe it got taken down. John grunted, fishing out a torsion wrench from his pocket. He knelt down on the ground and cleared his throat abruptly. "Cover the hall."

"Roger," Mike said, turning around.

Cameron silently turned to the opposite side of the hall, absently adjusting her hair.

_You're supposed to make conversation, _John thought to himself. But since when had he done anything right today? He sighed and twisted his hand over the door knob, expecting it to catch and then having to break the lock with the torsion wrench. Instead, much to his surprise, the knob glided along with his hand and the door cracked open slightly.

"Oh, shit," he breathed. "It's open, c'mon."

Mike and Cameron were both staring at him as he stood up, saying not a word, their faces expressionless. This was gonna be a great day, eh? Ehhh. John tapped the door and it slid backwards soundlessly. The staff here probably oiled it like a prized Thunderbird; including every other surface in this place, apparently. Hey, when you're rich, you can do shit like that.

The room inside was utterly dark save for the prism of light that came through the open doorway. You couldn't see much; just a few shapes and... a plant in the back; tall. John suddenly wanted to be holding a gun instead of a lockpick.

_Which reminds me_, he put it back in his jacket. The three of them filed in and stood there for a moment in the darkness.

"Find a light switch-" John began.

"Hooly-" someone not Mike or Cameron cried.

"-Shit!" Mike finished quietly. Someone not Mike or Cameron accidently pushed something heavy and brass onto the floor with a loud _bang. _John _really_ wanted a gun now.

John raised a pleading hand --although no one could see it-- "Sorry! We're-"

The lights glaringly went on, blinding John for a second and making him wince back. Cameron stood by the light switch, staring curiously into the room.

John blinked and looked himself.

A man in a security uniform sat on a desk at the far back of the office, a Beretta 9 mili in his hand, the barrel raised towards his face, almost as in surprise. The gun slowly lowered down towards the trio. John's legs automatically forced him to take a step back. The man looked to be in his mid twenties, with unkempt black hair and a somewhat handsome, angular face. His eyes were a simple brown and beneath all of that was a fairly slim body tucked into the confines of a bank security uniform. A name tag identified him as "Stewart," and not, as John had been calling him in his head, Someone not Mike or Cameron. That'd be sort of funny, though. The guy looked frazzled, like he hadn't slept in days.

Stewart stared at them soundlessly; he didn't raise the pistol, so John felt --pretty-- safe enough to clear his throat and say, "Hi."

"Uh, hello," he said. "What're you kids doing here?"

Stick to the story; "This is gonna sound stupid, but we're journalists." He paused.

Stewart eagerly filled in the silence. "No, you're not. I know what a reporter looks like and none of you are reporters."

"High school journalists," John clarified, putting extra emphasis on the journalist part, as if he was offended.

"Oh." _Great _was the unspoken addendum. "Let me guess, you're doing a nonsense story on a bank robbery that doesn't affect any of your _lives, _for which you'll promptly get a pat on the back for." He looked down. "And no one will read it."

John held back a helpless giggle. Yeah, that sounded about right, actually. Still... "Uhhh."

The officer held up a hand. Christ, they had to deal with law enforcement a lot today. "Sorry, I just feel a little jaded."

"I could tell."

Stewart looked up. "These your friends? They speak?"

John looked back at Mike and Cameron, nodding slightly. Mike, clearly holding back a grimace, stepped forward and offered his hand. "Aaron Bentley, how'ya doing?" He gave a stupefyingly fake smile and his eyes flicked over to John in the meantime.

The guard chewed on his lip a bit and smacked a hand into Mike's, pumping it once and releasing. "Aldus Stewart. I'm alright."

Mike frowned. "You don't look alright."

"Well, no, I'm not. But it isn't your business." He turned to Cameron. "Hello miss."

"Hello." She stayed exactly where she was and didn't offer to shake. The guard eyed her for a little before turning back to "Aaron."

"So, uh," Mike said. "We heard this office belonged to the security guard who..." He paused, crinkling his face, mind probably churning over how to get through this without offending the man. John moved in to rescue him -- and hoped the other kid would be at least grateful for it.

"Well, first we'd like to say we're deeply sorry for your loss," he said. "This can't be... y'know, easy for you."

"Yeah," Mike murmured, not sounding grateful in the slightest.

"It really is," Aldus said. He paused for a moment, as though steeling himself, and went on. "Especially when you're related to the man."

John blinked. "Related...?"

Aldus squared his shoulders and, finally, placed the pistol back in its holster. He pushed himself off the desk and looked John in the eye. "He..." Aldus rubbed his brows. "He _was_ my father, kids."

_Oh, man. _"God," John said, "I-I'm sorry, honestly, we don't have to do this, y'know... Sorry."

Mike sent a venomous look at John. _Yes, we do. _

The guard shook his head. "Well, it's not your fault. I apologize for my, uh, abrasive behavior before, it was rude of me."

John waved his hand almost frantically. "Du- I mean, Aldus, don't worry about it, I understand completely."

"Do you?" Aldus raised an eyebrow.

"My dad died before I was born."

"You never knew him, did you?"

John stiffened. "No."

Mike glanced at John, then at Cameron, as if he thought they were hiding something.

Well. _John_ was, anyway. Aldus said nothing, his point established well enough without having to say another word.

"I guess I don't understand," John admitted, starting to feel that coming in here was a mistake. "Look, why don't we leave you alone?"

"I'm not doing anything special," said Aldus. "You can... fire away with questions and such like, I suppose."

Weird. _What's his angle?_ Most people didn't discuss their... "problems" with total strangers, after all. Or maybe John was just too used to everyone he knew keeping shit secret. Except Riley. Least she was upfront with him.

"We'll be going," Mike said. "You can, y'know, uh..." He nodded a few times, like John got the hint, which he supposed he did. Sort of. _Stay here and interrogate him. _"We gotta go photograph s'more."

John sent an incredibly fake smile their way as Mike grabbed Cameron by the arm --little too forcefully-- and led her out. Felt his eyes twitch spasmodically and closed his eyes a moment. He was torn between wanting some backup and being glad that he got to finally do his own thing; the latter, he supposed, cause really, the less time he spent with those two, the better. Still. He didn't like the way Cameron and Mike were... interacting. Just felt off.

He turned back to Aldus, rubbing his forehead harshly. "Um..."

Aldus folded his arms. "You sure you're 'journalists?'"

John quirked an eyebrow. "Pretty sure."

"Hm."

John made a show of searching around in his backpack for a minute. "Damn, lost my recorder."

"Shame," Aldus grumbled half-heartedly.

"I can just do it verbatim, don't worry. So!" He motioned for a nearby chair, feeling oddly like his own mother, duping someone into believing he was something else entirely. Kind of fun, after a fashion. Sort of. Aldus nodded and John took a seat on it while the security guard re-took his roost on the corner of the desk. Aldus looked horribly uncomfortable.

John replayed the scene in his head for a quick moment. Pistol out of its holster, guy was sitting in a darkened room... what if he'd been...-?

Huh. Maybe.

"So you both worked in the same place." As luck would have it, John actually managed to find a small notepad and pencil in his backpack. He gave the thing a cursory glance while he handled the pencil in his right hand, flipping it through his fingers.

There weren't any notes in the notepad; plenty of doodles, though. Byproduct of boring English classes. He flipped through the pages, poorly drawn robots and soldiers with futuristic weaponry going by in a flash until he reached an unoccupied page. He poised the pencil and looked up at Aldus.

"We'd always done a lot of things together, my dad and I, including security work. Uh, his name was Sebastian. My family's always been a little funny about formal names, heh. A-anyway, we... we worked together a few years like this, pretty fine deal. Got to help each other out, always on the same page." He sighed.

John scratched his cheek, continuing to doodle in the notepad, nodding absently. Had to steer this in a particular direction...

Aldus continued to ramble. "It's so strange, not seeing him here... had _this_ big office and everything. I didn't even get an office, just a locker two floors down. He said this was _it, _his steady job, y'know? He really wanted to settle himself, put down some roots. We, dad and I never were really cut out for much, no uh, 'marketable' skills or some shit." He blinked. "Sorry for the swear."

"It's okay," John muttered, staring at his doodle. A police officer so far. He just let his hands do the work while his mind paid attention. Or maybe it was the other way around.

No, that was stupid.

"Anyway, he really wanted to put down here." He looked around the office again. "Can't say I blame him."

"Why would you?" John asked.

Aldus eyed John, frowning suddenly. "Mm. At the time I did. To tell you the absolute truth, I was getting paid much better at our last outfit, and the people working here are just kinda too prissy for my tastes."

John scribbled harder. It was almost as if Aldus didn't care anymore what he said. That would definitely fit... with what John was thinking.

"He was very insistent, though. Sort of weird, when you think about it. In the end I turned out to be right."

John cleared his throat. "Tell me about the robbery." He looked down at the doodle. The police officer wore a slick, black suit with a badge. He had a handsome, angular face and cold, cold eyes. Or at least that was how John liked to think of it. He started to work on the lower body, on the legs.

"Yes, exactly," Aldus murmured. "My dad is... he _was_ always headstrong. Mom said it'd get him hurt one day, I... I just didn't know how bad. None of us did."

John looked up, hoping he appeared at least somewhat sympathetic. It was hard. Really hard, cause when you deal with those fucking robots it's like your life has meant nothing up to that point. John had seen so, so many people just fall over like tenpins in the presence of a Terminator, eyes bulging and lifeless, blood pouring from their wounds. His mom survived an entire massacre twenty years ago aimed solely at finding and murdering her as she slept. Death was what Terminators peddled, nothing else.

He tapped the pencil swiftly against his side. Cameron, _maybe_ was the exception. Maybe.

"I'm sorry," John said.

Aldus didn't respond to that, almost like he didn't hear it. "There were ten of them. Well organized, most of them young, maybe in their twenties. Except for one. The ringleader. He was this big... big fu-damn palooka with all these _clothes_ on, this face mask over his head. Goddamn giant, probably seven feet tall. Wish we had the surveillance tapes to go on. They had the kind of hardware you'd expect a bunch of fucking gangbangers to have, and excuse me, I'm just..."

"It's okay, you can curse. I'll just delete it."

"You're a good kid," Aldus said. "Better 'n me."

John smiled. The doodle officer's legs were featureless, shiny and pale, in sharp contrast to the torso and face, filled as they were with detail. John started to work on a Beretta in the officers hand.

"Anyway, they uh... Well what you expect? They wanted money, and lots of it. Dad offered to escort the friggen' leader to the vault and a minute later I heard gunfire."

John cleared his throat. "Where were you at the time?"

"What?"

"Where were you?"

Aldus paused. "Not quite sure I understand the question."

John narrowed his eyes, feeling his heart skip a few beats, like a computer's hard drive hitching. He put the pencil down, the doodle completed. The police officer's left hand was a single, sharp stabbing scythe. Together it was a chrome, chiseled visage of power, a vision of the past confined to nightmares and a teenager's musing drawings. _Don't you look familiar? _ "Were you on the main floor with the hostages, or... I mean, what were you doing at the time?"

"Oh, oh, I was, yeah, didn't even have a chance to pull my pistol, they overwhelmed us." Aldus gulped sharply. "Fuckin' snakes, those assholes."

"Right... so your father."

Aldus sighed. "I dunno. He was a damn fool for wanting to stand up to Magilla Gorilla like that, should have known it'd get him killed. Makes me fucking pissed, uh...?" He suddenly looked at John questioningly.

John blinked. "Oh, John."

"John. Good to meet you. Where'd you friend Aaron and the pretty girl go off to?"

"Photograph," John said slowly. And since he _knew_ that wasn't what they were actually doing, he too had to wonder. "Like they said. What happened next?"

"Well, that's the thing, his gun..." Aldus licked his lips. "I think he tried to nail the prick, got the jump on him. I guess he figured the rest of the idiots would fall apart without their leader. Dad was a stubborn fool, but he was prudent as hell, lemme tell you."

John knew the rest of this story.

"I guess he missed," Aldus said, his voice ringing dully with resignation.

"I'm sorry," John said. He moved a hand forward and touched the man on the shoulder.

"Yeah... me too." Aldus abruptly rubbed at one of his eyes, his voice breaking. "Haven't talked to anyone about this. Soon as they told me he was dead I just... couldn't wrap my mind around it. I guess you know what it's like not to have a daddy, John, but I _knew_ this man and... it..."

John leaned back in the chair, averting his eyes, letting him grieve if he wanted it. He tore the doodle page almost savagely and started to scribble a new one. He drew a landscape, forming a line across the page and then filling it in with detail. He drew tendrils of smoke over the ground, mountains in the distance, shattered buildings on the horizon. On the foreground he created a smashed, metallic skull with glowing eyes. He started to put some detail into the boot that was crushing said skull when Aldus spoke up again.

"You're a fine boy, John. Thanks for your patience."

John smiled shyly. "Uh, it's cool, I'm just... well, y'know..." He motioned his head at Aldus, suddenly overwrought. Nice to get that every once and a while. _You're fine. _When was the last time someone said that to him?

"Yes, where was I? A-anyway, they got what they wanted and left."

"How?"

Aldus smirked wryly. "They went through the elevator."

John raised his hands, as if they were part of the conversation. "No, I mean, no one tripped a silent alarm? This is the tallest building in the city with_ probably_ the most security. You don't just... shoot a man and walk out with sacks full of money."

"Hardly any time to trip an alarm," Aldus said dismissively. "They were pointing guns at everybody."

"You also said the cameras weren't working that day."

"Did I?" Aldus frowned. "Uh, yes, they weren't. What a goddamn coincidence."

"Too many coincidences," John said. He hissed to himself, not knowing how Aldus would take what he wanted to say. After a moment of hemming and hawing he just decided _hell with it_ and jumped right in. "You think there might have been an inside man, working with the gang?"

Aldus smirked sadly. "Would certainly make sense, but I doubt it. Wasn't like some big conspiracy, John. That stuff's only in movies."

"But you'd have to agree, that'd make sense, right?"

"I suppose it _might._ Would certainly explain a few things."

Aldus' left eye suddenly twitched, and he raised a hand to rub at it. He smiled reassuringly.

John looked away again, not willing to trust himself to look at Aldus for a second without being suspicious. The guard kept talking. "But c'mon, a smart kid like you oughta know that sort of thing doesn't just _happen. _It was bad luck. Bad day, but, you know... that's all it was, John...?"

He didn't answer, still looking away.

They sat in the office in silence for at least a minute or two. Some sort of dreadful knowledge had passed between them without words needing to be spoken. John, again, replayed the entire scene. Gun in hand. Alone in a dark office. Unsatisfied with his job here. Couldn't tell John _where_ he was during a goddamned bank robbery. Kept talking about the robbers as if they'd betrayed him. He talked almost as if he _knew_ the Terminator who'd killed his father, giving him snide nicknames.

Above all, felt intensely guilty for his dad's murder.

John's pits did that whole sweating thing and he suddenly felt really, really cold all over. He had to clench his teeth hard to keep from shivering.

A lump had formed in his throat. He cleared it. "Aldus... what were you doing here before we came in?"

"I was just..." he swept a hand around the office, as if that motion alone explained it all in itself. "This week's been difficult for me to wrap my head around, I needed some-"

"With your gun out?"

Aldus stopped. This time there was no aloofness; they stared at each other like duelists preparing to draw. _Bad metaphor,_ John mentally admonished.

"You noticed that, huh." Aldus Stewart whispered.

John nodded.

"I was checking it," he said lamely.

"No," John said.

Aldus cocked his head, his easy demeanor vanishing and his mouth forming a hard, cold line. "What?"

"I said no, you weren't checking it." John scooted forward in the chair. "You were pointing it..."

_John checked the mechanism on the Glock, sitting indian style next to his mirror, his back to the small bureau. He picked up the small clean rag again and started to gently rub it into the clip cylinder, pausing as he realized there was still a bullet left in the chamber. Small, brass and glistening. He'd almost oiled it. _

_John pulled the Glock back a ways from his head, really staring at the gun now, not just the individual parts, the mechanisms. He saw the big picture. The safety was off. Still a bullet left, waiting patiently to fly forth and do what bullets do. He put the un-clean rag down and took the handle of the pistol with both hands, rotating the barrel until it rested against his chin. Felt like he was on automatic, like all the moves he made were planned, checked, re-checked, and approved of. Nothing wrong here. Just instinct. He could feel the indentation of the void within, where the bullet sat. _

_His right hand turned and wrapped around the trigger guard, his index finger snaking past the guard and touching the trigger. Felt new, as if he'd never touched something quite like this before. _

_They'll be so sad. Just cleaning and what do you know? The savior of mankind has a bullet in his head. _

_Heh. Yeah. _

_His index finger pressed hard on the trigger. A split second before that, a spasmodic twitch jerked through John's brain, running down from his head to his crotch, making his whole body sway. He didn't hear the blast of the gun, just felt a hot pain suddenly on his cheek as the shell casing flew up and struck it. John collapsed down to the ground and stared in wonder as the Glock landed perfectly still next to his head, just an inch away, the barrel smoking. _

_Silence for a moment, and then the soft sprinkling of glass falling to the carpet. And running footsteps outside. _

"... at your head." He'd mistaken that for surprise initially. But no. Just indecisiveness. John furrowed his eyebrows and glared at the man sitting in front of him.

Aldus slowly, calmly stood up.

A cool, long silence fell between them. Aldus' hands folded into fists at his sides, making low popping noises as the knuckles cracked.

Another lump in his throat. "A-Aldus-"

Aldus Stewart whipped the gun out of its holster and pointed it at John's chest.

"You must think you're _some shit_, don't you, Sherlock?" Where his voice had once been calm, almost bordering on friendly, it was now anything but, having became a rumbling, angry growl.

John made his shoulders rise in a shrug. His lips pressed together and stayed pressed. He didn't breathe. Barely thought about anything.

"Who the fuck are you?" Aldus asked.

"John," John said.

"You aren't no _fucking_ 'journalist'." That last word stretched out in a nasal, mocking tone. Aldus gestured with his free hand. "Congratulations. You got it. Completely _fucking_ right, John, my kudos to you, Sherlock."

"Aldus." John's fingers in his right hand twitched. "It's okay."

"_No. _No, it ain't _fucking_ okay, John. It isn't enough that that I did _everything_ those fucking hoohaws told me to do, it ain't _fucking_ enough that they went and murdered my dad, the _only_ person in the world to me, it ain't enough that I have to live the rest of my life with this shit on my shoulders, _tearing_ into me every _fucking_ day... No, that ain't enough. I _also_ have to deal with a fucking snot-nosed _prick_ like you telling everyone what a goddamned horrible person I am. What the _fuck_ are you, a plant? Who suspects, huh?"

"No one."

"Bullshit. It ain't my _fucking_ fault, Sherlock. Dad was...-"

"Your dad did what he thought was right."

"Unlike _me,_ right?" Aldus spat. "Enough of your _fucking_ high horse bullshit, Sherlock. D-do do you realize? How much shit I've had to take? I can't fucking pay for my mortgage and dad gets a cushy office!"

"You sold out," John said. _DUDE, shut the FUCK up. He's gonna SHOOT you if you keep doing this shit. _

"Wanna put it like that?" Aldus chewed on his lip and when he opened his mouth to speak John could see blood. "You really want to? Cause honestly kid, I'm fucking _twisting_ in the wind here while everyone else gets a _fat_ paycheck. Can't eat, have to rely on _dad_ like a goddamn leper, it's-it's humiliating."

Aldus giggled, moving closer to John, pressing the Beretta against his chest so hard his ribs shuddered in pain. But all John could think was _Good. _

"No, no, no... John... this was my _due. _They promised me such... a cut it would make you cream your goddamned pants if you heard it."

"Totally worth it," John squeaked, trying to lace his voice with as much sarcasm as he could muster. It was kinda difficult to breathe, though.

"Fuck you. I know I made a fucking mistake, I know that, I know I've known for days now, it's-it's been tossing and turning in my head, but... it wasn't _my_ fault."

"You were about to shoot yourself," John said cooly. "I'd say you're not all that into your new wealth."

"That's my business. And you're _wrong,_ John. I was just... surprised is all."

"You were gonna shoot yourself."

"Go eat a dick, piece of shit." He grabbed John's collar, bringing him close enough to kiss, if that was what John had in mind. It really, really wasn't. He could feel Aldus' cold breath on his face, making him cringe. "Got a phone?"

John nodded.

"Call your friends. We're gonna have a chat."

"You killed your own fucking dad," John said, not moving at all.

"No, I didn't. _He_ killed him."

"You must have really hated him."

"I loved him with all my heart, you sack of crap, but he was a fucking idiot."

"Braver 'n you."

Aldus cocked back the hammer, his eyes focusing like telescopes on the gun. John sucked in a breath and slammed his right arm against Aldus', wrapping it around the man's back and digging painfully against his skin. Aldus yelped as John pushed up from the chair and carried them both to the floor. John felt his right hand crack horribly under the impact, but he ignored it, slugging Aldus once in the face with his free hand, balled into a fist.

Aldus cried in pain and attempted to knee John in the stomach as retaliation but John checked the attack, throwing his whole body to the side, crashing painfully into the chair in his haste to avoid. He snaked his right hand back around and grabbed the pistol out of Aldus' grasp, jumping up off of him and running a few steps towards the door.

John whirled around, aiming directly down the iron sight at Aldus' chest. His whole body shook terribly with a mixture of sweat and adrenaline, but his hand was steady.

"Okay-" John started.

Aldus began to laugh.

"Go ahead, ehehehehe, oh god..." His grimace turned upside down into a huge, manic grin. "No, John, really. Shoot."

"Knew it," John said quietly. He sighed and jerked the pistol up. "Get up, sit down, listen to me."

"Fuck you, I'm not telling you shit. It ain't worth it. None of this shit is worth it. Heh." He started to roll himself around to face John directly, making him an even larger target.

John shut his eyes tightly for a second and then slowly reopened them. "Aldus-"

"Hehehe..."

He tightened his press on the trigger almost unconsciously. Completely unconsciously. Dude, don't even go there. Don't... satisfy this prick.

John blinked as the man continued to laugh, the sound never going above a whispering, maniacal giggle. What a fucking slap to the face this was. They'd been... talking, almost like _friends_ and the guy _complimented_ John one moment and called him a _fucking prick _the next. And he laughed. John glared at him, feeling his heartbeat slowly return to normal. Detached, almost resigned anger set in. Fuck his sob story. This guy deserved no one's sympathy.

John reached into his pocket and tore out his cellphone, leaving the gun to dangle from his right as he called Cameron's cell. Aldus subsided, merely choosing now to watch John, like a lizard.

Cameron's voice spoke up a few seconds later. "Hello?"

_You know who it is, you metal whore. _"Uh, it's... John. You two need to come back to the office, right now." His eyes fell over Aldus for the umpteenth time. He chuckled nastily at John, privy to some smug secret.

A beat. "What happened?"

"Just get over here, okay?" John paused. "What're you two doing?"

Another beat; someone else's voice, probably Mike's. He sounded worried. Cameron listened and then said, "I wanted to extract more information out of the bank teller you spoke to."

"That lady?" John scratched his chin. What the fuck good was she to them now that Aldus had basically confessed? "And...?"

"She's no longer there and we cannot find her. We're coming to the office."

John stared off ahead, his eyes going wide. He said not a word as he thumbed off the cellphone and looked down at Aldus. The man stared past him, smirking, and he slowly raised two fingers, like a peace sign. Not what it meant, though. It meant _Two. _

The door clicked behind John, and he turned to find himself staring into the barrel of a revolver.

A/N: Took a while, I know. Hope the length makes up for it.


	9. Gave a Gun

**No Trespassing**

Chapter Nine: Gave a Gun

John turned his head just a little. He didn't swing around, didn't turn himself fully to see what was going on. A tiny quirk of his head.

_That_ probably killed him more than anything else he failed to do. His mom taught him to keep his defenses strong and heightened, strong and heightened, all the time, all the time, and he just _nodded_ his head. What the hell did it mean, anyway? And furthermore, why would he want to? Why not relax for a moment, not feel so _tense_ and ready to kill all the time?

Stupid. Deadly stupid.

Despite all the warnings he just turned his head, keeping the Beretta and his whole body facing Aldus Stewart. Just in case. The inside-man waited on the floor, bruised and smirking sadly at John's mistake.

_Well, of course. How does one security guard plan a whole bank robbery? The answer is; he doesn't. He has another to help him. Of course. _

The door swung open and a gun and a woman stood outside, one in front of the other, like they were two people waiting to come in. The woman --bank teller-- looked worried, not at all malignant, not at all expecting to see anyone there with her accomplice. Or boyfriend. Or whatever she was.

The gun waited ahead of her, a .38 purse revolver. Amazingly weak gun, but at point blank range John knew it would kill you just as dead. His whole body started to shake, like he felt deathly cold in a room-temperature office.

John began to move. He acted too little, too late. He screwed up.

He couldn't expect clemency from criminals. They protect their own, protect their dirty little secrets.

He swung around to the right, forgetting Aldus entirely. The door continued to swing, and he saw the woman's expression change like a mountain face collapsing. Horror. Who did she see first? John, with the gun, the threat? Or Aldus, the friend, prostrate and hurt on the floor?

John's arms moved faster than the rest of him. They gripped the pistol hard. He was too deliberate, too careful as he moved. Not a quick-draw like his uncle, not a dirty fighter like his mother, not indomitable like his bodyguard. Average.

There it goes... the .38 safety hammer clicked hard. She knew how to use it. The expression changed to detached, strange looking rage, like she was unused to the emotion.

In his haste to move, John realized he'd made another mistake. His arms flew straight into the still-opening door, hard enough to send waves of shock through his hands, up to his fingertips. The nerves screamed their protest and refused to act any longer.

And the fingers tightened reflexively.

The Beretta exploded in his hands, against his will. No amount of mental chastising would stop it from going off. John found himself dropping the gun as he winced in a mixture of surprise and pain, he dropped the gun even before the spent shell ejected itself from the slide. The nine milli struck the wall to the left of the door, useless and very, _very_ loud.

There was no more sound. John felt as if he hadn't heard anything during the entire encounter anyway. He raised his arm to his face, to ward off the woman's expected attack, to translate his surrender... as a mere instinctual, horrified gesture, really. Useless, no matter what the motion was for.

The woman reflexively squeezed the trigger, probably expecting herself shot and wounded, not knowing John had missed, merely acting on instinct. John felt the concussive blast of the .38 going off right ahead of him and jerked back against the impact a split second later.

Then --pain -- falling --, dark, dark, dark.

------------

Cameron and Michael were about two steps out of the main lobby when the whole bank was brought suddenly and quite unexpectedly to its knees for the second time in a month.

Cameron's ballistics profile registered a nine millimeter round, probably fired from a Beretta SF, going off roughly twenty yards away, at her four o'clock.

All activity directly behind her and Mike ceased. The already-scarcely populated bank held its breath, unwilling to believe that, yes, again, there was gunfire within their premises. Humans were remarkably willing to suspend their disbelief in the face of peril, regress back into their own little worlds and wait for the sun to come out again.

Mike immediately started running down the corridor, his strides uneven and inefficient.

Cameron merely stopped.

Two seconds after the first, another bullet discharged; a weaker .38 caliber round. Same direction. The inhabitants of the bank finally chose to react as on organism; they chose to panic and flee. Screams flew out, a communal sound of stampeding footfalls towards the elevators filled Cameron's hearing. She didn't care. She tuned them out.

John was in danger. That was all that mattered.

Cameron took a step forward-

----------

Allison Young woke up to the sound of gunfire.

One, two shots. Loud and quick, like firecrackers going off. Sound was like fireworks too. Up, up... and then drifting down to the earth, settling. Peaceful silence resumed, a luxury rarely encountered in this world. Allison perked her head toward the boarded up window, her back stiffening in preparation to run.

Beneath her, Ralph slept, a scratchy wool blanket the only thing protecting his decency. One thing led to another last night; the details were unimportant. He slept quietly, but deeply, his mouth hanging open like a child's. Despite his dog having died last night, Allison was able to make it up to him. He didn't mind that at all.

His body was cold, and somewhat damp. It was a curious thing for Allison to feel. By all indications, Ralph had felt curious things himself. For all the lawlessness co-habitating with the rise of the machines, he'd probably been... well. Anyway.

She raised herself slightly with her arms, still looking towards the window.

Bright, grainy sunlight filtered through the barricades, and she saw nothing beyond that. Allison frowned, considering just laying back down and waiting.

The shots sounded like they came from a pistol. There was obviously no danger. If the machines had arrived, the refugees would either be burning or running for the hills, not staying to fight with pistols.

Target practice...?

Allison glanced down at Ralph. She considered something for a moment, but ultimately put paid to the thought. Not now. Not yet. She settled on stroking his hair, gently running her finger across his forehead, and then pushing up off the bed. When she was good and dressed in her rags, she quietly left the room, peering left and right through the dark foyer. The refugees were up and about, same as her. Despite the loud gunshots just a minute ago, life went on unfettered. Unbothered. A woman laid out filthy clothes for her two bathing children, frolicking as they were in a very cold wash pan. Where'd she get the water for that?

Allison turned to the side; one of the resistance members stood there, hefting a plasma rifle. A quick scan of the room told Allison that the other, probably Southern, resistance member had gone. But to where?

"Uhh," the rebel said.

Allison rolled her eyes. "Still alive, trust me. You can go in and check."

He gulped. "Uh, _yeah_, I know he's alive." He adjusted his collar.

"Should I wake him?"

The man waved an annoyed arm. "Look, I don't give a damn, we have..." He looked out the nearby window. "Uh, other things to worry about."

Allison tracked his motion. "What were those gunshots?"

"I dunno," the man admitted. Some of the refugees had gone quiet all of a sudden, watching, listening. "Adrian went outside just a second ago."

Allison didn't know whether to be more revolted by the casualness of that statement or that he hadn't done the math yet. Not like it mattered. Whatever his reasons, Adrian was dead now.

The rebel and Allison glanced back at each other in perfect unison.

"So when are we leaving?" she asked.

------------

- and began walking...

Cameron blinked and looked around. Mike jerked hard on her arm, trying to rally her into going forward.

"-_wake up, this is NOT the time to be sleepi..._" He looked up at her face and saw consciousness there, making him step back involuntarily in surprise. "Wha..."

Behind them, the bank had long-since emptied. Cameron did a quick internal clock check and found yet another skip, this time for about thirty seconds. Oh no.

She started to run, not even giving Michael the benefit of an explanation. Without any other recourse, he was forced to follow her, killing a groan in his throat. Not relevant. Cameron heard no signs of activity up ahead and started to fear the worst.

--------------

Mike did his best to keep up with Cameron, but hydraulic assisted speed against asthma was never a really good formula for that. He glared daggers at her slowly dwindling back in between retching gasps of air. He should have kept going. Shouldn't have waited for her, she was just as liable to shut down in the middle of a fist fight as she was to break every skull in the room. Mike hadn't really had a good idea of just how fucked up she'd gotten until just now.

_You should have known back at the house. _

He should have known lots of things. Half of him wanted to stop, catch his breath, and let Cameron do the work. Chances were she wouldn't have another malfunction, right? What was the point in him making an effort only to have John glare at him later? Fuck, what was the point in him doing _anything_ for _anyone_ anymore?

Hadn't spoken to his family in two months, John hated him, Cameron... _used_ him (well, tried, anyhow...,) no one... It didn't really matter. Not really. He didn't fight for those people anymore.

Or so he'd like to think. Could be true, could not be. He seriously had to calm down and do some heavy thinking sometime later.

Right now wasn't the time for heavy thinking. He broadened his steps a little; the office wasn't that far, he'd get there in time. Mike rounded the corner, inadvertently bashing his shoulder against the marble upholstery in his haste. Strangled a cry in his throat; more wasted breath. The office was just down the hall, a little to the right. Cameron stood in front of the door, staring blankly at it.

Oh hell. What now? Mike sped up a little, more than he'd thought himself capable. That little hitch in his chest became a vise, constricting his lungs.

As he got closer, he realized Cameron hadn't gone brain-dead again. She still moved, only... not so much, really. Looked like she was listening in.

--

**Strengthen audio input, degree angular 25. Filtering non-relevant sounds. **

_"-how, how old is he?"_

_"I dunno. Someone's probably tripped the silent alarm, we gotta go."_

_"Are you okay?"_

_"Are _you_?"_

_"He tried to shoot me. I had no choice."_

_"You're shaking all over, Gloria."_

_"So are you."_

_"Lemme get my gun."_

_"Oh god... he's dead, isn't he?"_

_"Certainly seems that way. You had no choice."_

_"What were you doing in here?"_

_"Nothing. Gimme the gun... there."_

_"Oh god..."_

_"Stop crying."_

_"I... I didn't mean to..."_

_"You _had_ to. It's-"_

That was all Cameron needed to hear.

--

Cameron kicked in the door; the wooden frame snapped into dust and splinters, went flying in all directions.

"Cameron- Hey!" Mike called.

She went inside. He was about ten or so feet away. He willed himself to go ever faster, but only ended up having to slow himself down because of the exertion he'd already put himself through. Goddamnit, god...

"What the-" woman's voice. The bank teller?

"HANDS UP!" Aldus said.

Loud crunching sound, followed by a whooshing gust of air. Oh Jesus. Aldus' Beretta spoke loudly and widly, sounding like a cornered wolf. A shriek came over the loud blasts and then a thumping noise. Cameron briefly reappeared in the doorways threshold as she staggered back under the suppressive fire, that impassive, locked and set death glare on her face. Mike grimaced.

A cracking sound erupted as she stepped back inside; another womanly shriek.

"WHY WON'T YOU DIE?!" Aldus screamed.

Mike rounded the doorway and took a brief, split-second glance at the situation before he moved in. Blackish shape on the floor; no blood, hands clutching chest. Cameron whaled on a woman in a beige dress; her arm was at an awkward angle. Aldus stood near the back of the room, unloading shot after shot into Cameron, most of the bullets going wide.

Cameron had the woman well in hand. Perhaps too well in hand. Mike focused on the security guard.

Steeling himself, he took off towards the left wall of the room, barely wincing as a bullet blew a hole in a painting right behind him. Like a pinball he bounced himself off the western wall --not actually hitting it-- and lowered slightly as he charged at Aldus. The man was clearly confused out of his damn wits and barely saw the teenager coming as he lunged at him.

"Fuck-"

The woman shrieked, whether in pain or terror, or maybe both, he really didn't know.

Mike grabbed the barrel of the still smoking Beretta and twisted the gun painfully in Aldus' hand. He relinquished control of the weapon easily and Mike twirled it once in his hands so that it rested comfortably in his grip. He followed up by shoving Aldus against the desk and stepped back, taking shaky aim.

Aldus dipped his hand into his trousers and grabbed a purse revolver, a .38.

"No," Mike said. He aimed the gun slightly to the right and fired a warning shot. Tried, anyway. The gun clicked harmlessly; the safety had gone back on during the struggle. Mike felt a surge of hot pain fly through his head and he fumbled to re-drop the hammer. "_No, stop._"

The guard lowered his safety and aimed the gun directly at Mike's head just as he armed _his_ gun. Mike's eyes went wide.

"Stop," he repeated, sucking in a breath.

"Drop it," Aldus said.

"Stop it." His lips felt numb. He had to shoot. Oh god, no. Him or Aldus, choice wasn't hard. _Yes it is. Made a promise. What good is that when you can't keep it?_ In the periphery of Mike's view, Cameron dropped her punching bag and went upright.

"I'll shoot first, _you want that?"_

"No, stop it."

"Aaron-"

Fuck promises. Mike slowly squeezed the trigger, wincing.

Cameron grabbed a nearby picture off the wall --something motivational-- and flung it like a frisbee at Aldus' hand before Mike could shoot. The painting cracked loudly against his wrist, making the man fire off a round reflexively -- but uselessly. Mike ducked as the bullet hit the ceiling, and then he stared ahead. The .38 clattered to the floor, prompting him to dive on it. As he laid on the floor, he absently breathed out a sigh of relief.

Aldus took a few unintended steps back, cradling his broken hand in his good one, making a low whining sound in his throat. His eyes bulged in his head like ripe fruit. He looked unhinged, a mad dog.

Mike slowly righted himself while keeping the Beretta _and_ the .38 aimed at the guard as he seethed in his corner. Despite the last few violent seconds, he couldn't help feeling just _slightly_ giddy holding two guns, like he was some kind of action hero or whatever. He was reminded of, back when they'd been trying to save Cameron two months ago, John making a quip about that. It sort of flew right over Mike's head back then.

He took another deep breath; the last two minutes of running and combat bore down on him like the realization that you've just been shot without having felt it. Hot, enflaming pain shot up his thighs and legs, making him tremble.

"Cam?" he whispered.

No answer. He gave a hard, warning look at Aldus and then turned briefly to check on Cameron and... John. Oh man, John.

The Terminator crouched over the jacketed body, and it occurred very suddenly to Mike that it couldn't be anyone other than John. He blinked disbelievingly, feeling his heart freeze up. He suddenly wanted very badly to apologize for all the problems they'd just had today, even the ones that were plainly John's fault and not his. Anything to-

"He's alive," Cameron said simply.

"Oh Christ," Mike muttered. He swiped a hand over his forehead --careful not to bruise himself with the gun-- and looked back at Aldus Stewart, who'd gone from enraged to, for a world, appeasing.

"Uhh, hey, listen..." His eyes flitted nervously over to the probably dead bank teller; she hadn't moved an inch since Cameron finished with her. He gulped. "This was just a big misunderstanding..."

"Fuck you," Mike said.

"He'll be fine," Cameron went on. She stood up and locked her gaze onto Aldus'. The man suddenly whimpered. "Who shot him?"

He pointed at the bank teller.

"Oh."

"You..." Aldus gulped. "You're cops, right?"

"If you'd like to think so."

Shook his head. "_No, _I want to... to _know,_ I wanna know."

"Shut up," Mike said.

"Oh god, what happened..." Aldus backed himself against the wall and stared mournfully at the ceiling. "I must be dreaming."

"Get John up," Mike muttered back to the cyborg.

"He'll be fine. See to him if you'd like." Cameron stepped forward, extending a hand. Three red spots glistened on her chest. Mike pulled out his inhaler again and puffed down as he handed her the .38, moving past her and kneeling next to John Connor. His right hand moved to check his temperature; the skin felt clammy and a little cold, which was actually a pretty good sign. He was conscious enough to be at least half-aware of his situation.

"Stay away from me," he heard Aldus whisper. The only other sound was the soft footfalls of Cameron's boots.

No REM either, but Mike didn't expect to see that anyway. His --Mike's, that is-- breathing started to become a bit more regular. He rolled John over slightly, coaxing an involuntary groan. No blood on the floor; none of which was John's, anyway. Mike grimaced at the bank teller. He sighed and rolled John back, running his hand fitfully across the jacket. Where'd he get shot? _Did_ he get shot?

He thought back to the last time he'd found himself in this position. He'd been half-crazy on morphine and found John alive amongst a foundation of dead commandos and bar patrons. There'd been nothing clinical about it. When you stripped away anything even remotely professional about him, Mike was nothing if not rabid. It really bothered him, in retrospect.

His palm felt a slight tear in the leather, making Mike focus in on it. A small hole beneath the right breast; and just that. A hole. Mike frowned and touched his hand to the rip, expecting to feel blood and flesh and instead feeling swiftly cooling brass. A flattened bullet.

Mike pulled away slightly, quirking his head. What...

"Tell me what you know."

"Leave me the fuck alone. You can arrest me if you want. I want my goddamned rights read to me." Aldus' voice kept rising, grew more shrill and insane sounding. What had John found out? The guy seemed normal as anybody when he first met the man.

"You made a deal with robbers, possibly for money or a higher position."

"_You already broke my fucking hand, I'm not saying shit- YAHHGGHHH!"_

Mike shivered, not looking back. He cleared his throat over Aldus' whimpering and slowly peeled John's jacket back. His t-shirt was spotless. Mike frowned and, after a second's consideration, lifted that up too. He found a small, black and blue bruise around where the bullet had hit, but only that. He folded the shirt back and sighed in relief. John had kevlar sewn into his jacket. Of course.

"We are going to make this quick, you and I. You are going to tell me everything and then we will leave you alone."

Aldus blubbered. Mike caught only snippets of what he was saying, mostly delusional rambling about his daddy.

"I-I-I-I cuh-can't, th-"

Something very small snapped with a low _crack. _

"AHGHHHHHH!"

"Yes, you can."

"_I just want to die, please let me die. I can't go on with this bullshit!"_

"You may live as long as you are useful to me. Please cooperate."

Mike tapped John's cheek. "Hey." No response. He did it a tad harder. Mike frowned again and lifted the kevlar plated jacket slightly to the side so he could look at the other side of it. The bullet head protruded very slightly out of the back of the jacket. Another few inches, just a bit more velocity, and it would have penetrated. Mike pushed the thing hard and it neatly plopped out, clattering to the floor.

He leaned back a little, considering. Wished there was a window nearby so he could see if the cops hadn't arrived yet. Goddamnit.

"John," he said. "Wake up."

John groaned.

Mike sighed and smacked him hard on the cheek, leaving a long red mark. He immediately tempered the blow by moving the hand up to give John a playful rub on the forehead.

"What-" John started up, pupils dilating. His right hand blindly grappled onto Mike's shoulder and used him for support.

"Hey, hey, it's okay."

"I- s-shot." He coughed.

_"Some guy named Joey Cook! I-I always met him at this strip club with fucking Gloria over there, we-we talked about this shit!"_

"What was it called?"

Aldus gulped hard. "I-I'm bad with names, I just knew the address."

His hand had frozen on John's head, like he was afraid to move it. Mike glanced at the hand like he'd caught it doing something unspeakable in a corner. "No, you're fine. That jacket saved you."

John stared at him for a moment, his eyes slowly going wide with realization. "Oh..." He broke into a shaky grin. "Oh man... heheh." His eyes flicked up to Mike and he smirked knowingly.

He moved his hand back, turning.

"God..." John said, laying his head back. Sounded like he was crying. Maybe with relief.

Cameron stood near the security guard, who was half-laid down over the office desk, writhing in pain. She wasn't even touching him. By the look on her face, she seemed almost bored.

"-1105 West Olympic, or somewhere around there!"

The Terminator paused for a moment. "You say a strip club. Does he have any favorite women?"

"Fuck am I supposed to know?!"

She leaned over, grabbed his foot, and snapped it hard to the side, and then back again. Aldus screamed, tears jetting from his eyes as he thrashed up and down. "_I said I don't know!!"_

"I believe you. But that was a warning. Stop being difficult."

Mike cleared his throat. "Cameron-"

She clicked her head over to him, turning it slightly. _Shut up. _Mike gulped and pressed on. "Cameron, we should really get outta here."

"What else can you tell me?" Cameron asked, ignoring Michael. The kid sighed and returned his attention to John, rubbing his shoulder.

"I-I, uh... Oh my god, it hurts, please stop it..." He hissed. "Um, it's a gang, they don't fuck around... killed my pop... _I'm sorry._ I know I should'na done it, the cut they were promising, just too fucking good, I should'a known better-"

"You're only sorry because you were caught," Cameron said tonelessly. "Do you know anything about their leader?"

Aldus laid his head back on the desk, groaning pathetically, like he didn't have the energy to thrash around or resist anymore. Mike wished he didn't know what that felt like.

"Nuh- n... no. Never talked to him, only... caught a glimpse. Big... guy, real tall. Killed my pop..." He clenched his teeth and looked over at Gloria's corpse. "Is, uh..."

"Do not worry about her. She will be fine."

Mike glared at Cameron.

Aldus coughed. "Goddamnit... You-you're gonna ask me where their hideout is; I dunno. I honestly don't. Joey's definitely one of theirs, made the deal with me n' everything. I should have... should have shot him in the back when I had the chance."

"Such is the way of criminals," Cameron said. Not that she _cared,_ though, right? Human criminals and human saints were basically all the same to her, weren't they?

"Fuck you..." Aldus spat.

John slowly started to sit up, continuing to use Mike for support. "What... happened?"

"Can you stand?" Mike asked quietly.

"Yeah, I'll be fine. Chest hurts like hell. What's going on?"

"Go outside and check the hall for people, John. Get your bearings back. I think you'll be just fine."

John nodded and patted Mike on the shoulder. "Yeah... Thanks, Mike..."

He couldn't help it. He grinned. "Nice." Mike handed John the Beretta and saw him out the door. Despite the glowing sensation in his gut, he found himself shaking his head at the kid's back. He got in way over his head there, and it almost got him killed. He wasn't about to get in John's face about it like Cameron or even his damn mother, but they couldn't exactly go around tolerating this shit much longer. Just couldn't.

"And fuck you too!" Aldus called to John as he left. Mike merely rolled his eyes at him. Aldus paused a beat and sighed. "Smart alec fuck..." His tone sounded grudging, like there was respect there.

Cameron grabbed his other foot and twisted before Mike could consider that, and the result was fairly predictable. When Cameron was finished, and Aldus had stopped screaming he said; "W-why?"

"So you don't follow us."

Mike cracked his neck slightly and looked out the door again, not wanting to watch.

"Why don't you just kill me?"

John's shadow lingered near the threshold, the Beretta passing fitfully between his hands. Cameron passed Mike's vision a moment later and she held out the .38 revolver to him. He blinked and took the thing, his thumb reaching automatically for the safety. "Wha?"

_"You can't leave me like this!"_

"Do what you like. I'm going to check on John."

"Wait- what?" What was she- ?

"_Motherfuckers! Fuck!" _Aldus started sobbing.

But she'd already started again, stepping carefully over Gloria's legs and disappearing from sight. She briefly halted in the corridor as John said something, and she actually _smiled._

Weirdest fucking thing Mike had seen today. He looked down at the revolver again, then back at Aldus Stewart.

----------

When Cameron appeared in the doorway, John quickly pulled the Beretta out of his pants and pointed it at her from his stomach. "Bang."

She cocked her head, smiling oddly.

"You'd've been dead," John said confidently. He placed the Beretta back, his hand lingering on the handle. He wanted to practice his freaking head off after that fuck up, he still felt... well his teeth wouldn't stop clattering. He'd actually been shot. For real. A stupid receptionist easily accomplished what two highly advanced cyborgs (three if you count that tall freak that was after Bedell) and one malfunctioning Cameron hadn't; actually hitting him. He had to work on his quick draw. No fucking excuses, _GOD_ his hands wouldn't stop shaking, he felt like an epileptic.

"The bullet would have caused only superficial damage, most likely ricochetting off my combat chassis." She considered that for a sec and added; "Also, it could have ricochetted back towards _you,_ thus making the shot self-destructive AND harmless."

John rubbed the back of his neck, frowning. "Uh, yeah, if you were human, I mean."

Her eyes widened. "Oh. Yes, I probably would have died." _And here's a gold star for you. _

_Change the subject. You can practice later. Moron. _"What's Mike doing?"

She looked back in the room, then back quickly. "Nothing. We should leave."

"What about Aldus?"

Cameron didn't even look back this time. She started walking, and John found himself following easily. "Aldus told me what I needed to hear. No more."

"You think he'll get picked up by the cops?"

"You were reckless. You should have surrendered until we arrived."

John huffed. What was her deal? "No kidding. I just reacted on impulse, what else could I do?"

"You could have surrendered. We would have dealt with them either way."

"I'm not apologizing for reacting. I'm alive, we got what we wanted... everyone's happ-"

There came a low, muzzled-sounded _cough_ of a gunshot from the office. John whirled around to watch Mike quietly leave the office, his hands deep in his pockets. The sound of the gun rolled off the corridors, and everything went silent again. John's heart pounded against his chest. Jesus Christ! Fucking _liar_.

"Mike..."

The kid gulped. "Yeah."

"What the fuck?"

He shrugged, cocking his head a little. "I gave him what he wanted."

"You said you've stopped killing people."

He looked sad all of a sudden. "I didn't. I gave him the gun."

--------------

They found Adrian much as they'd expected to a half hour later. The sun had come out by then and the sky was actually blue, a rare occurrence nowadays. Adrian was slumped over next to an ancient car wreck; a Corvega Highwayman, the red paint long since blasted and flecked away by the elements so that it was grey and rusted. Adrian looked like a felled scarecrow from afar. Up close he was normal except for the red hole in his forehead. The resistance member offered Allison his pistol; she didn't really know why. Waste not.

The resistance member's name was Frank. He didn't identify himself to Allison; apparently one of the refugees knew him by name. They stood silently over the elderly man's corpse in silence, punctuated only by the wind flailing off the surrounding hills and the sound of Allison racking the slide on the 10 millimeter. When she was done she glanced down at the corpse and sniffed slightly.

"Why would he kill himself?"

Frank shrugged. "I wish I knew him better."

"You didn't know him?"

"I got assigned to him on refugee pickup, same as Ralph. My old squad got wiped out, so..." He drifted off, clearing his throat uncomfortably. With all the practice of an obsessive compulsive he glanced up at the sky, then back down again.

"Did we need him?" Allison asked.

"No." Frank shook his head. "I'm the APC driver, he was just here for cohesion's sake, or something. We can get by without him." He gave the horizon another quick look. "We should get moving soon, there were a bunch of HK patrols last night. It could be they're clearing the way for ground pounders."

Allison shrugged, rubbing her bracelet. "Perhaps we should bury him."

Frank quirked an eyebrow. "Feh. Why bother?" He sniffed, looked up again, down again. "Just another bleached skeleton in a couple of weeks."

These resistance guys sure put business above a lot of things.

They turned away from the body. Allison gave it one last look as they walked. Adrian's face was peaceful. His eyes were open, yet serene, no sign of distress. Just one day he decided to end everything, end the constant suffering in this desolated world. Simple as that.

"So you like Ralph."

Allison twirled the bracelet on her wrist. "I don't think so."

"You made his fucking night. No pun intended." He smirked sidelong at her. "I've known him a while."

"Really." She eyed the resistance APC as they passed it. An old armored personnel carrier employed by the U.S. army before Judgment Day, probably found in some bunker somewhere and put to better use. Allison had seen plenty, although this one had some interesting modifications. The .50 caliber on the roof of the carrier had been replaced with a large, single-shot plasma cannon. A slower, more unreliable weapon, but it'd have no problem bringing down HKs. The vehicle also had some weird mesh draped all over it. Given the wires leading into an external battery, it seemed like a bunch of fiber optics. Probably to fool aerials.

So _that_ was why this house hadn't been torched by that patrol last night...

Frank hissed through his teeth, stepping onto the porch. Allison kept staring at the APC, wondering if there was an over-head hatch. Probably.

The man stopped suddenly and touched her on the shoulder. Allison blinked and looked at him. "Huh?"

"You okay?"

"Oh, yeah. Just excited about getting to Serrano Point. Finally."

Frank nodded. "Yeah, me too. I've spent way too much time in this fucking wasteland." He ran a hand over his chin, covered in dark hair. He sighed. "So you're a messenger?"

"Yeah."

"To John Connor."

She paused a beat. This was actually more delicate than it should have been. Only a year ago and, if you could prove it, John Connor's name and business with that person meant an express trip, no questions asked, right to his doorstep. _Well,_ it wasn't that easy, not since the infiltrators started to show up. And it was even more difficult now that the reprogramming drive had started. People simply didn't agree with fighting alongside cyborgs. Didn't matter if they were programmed to follow your every command. It made a lot of people nervous; and thus it made a lot of people angry, specifically at John Connor himself.

Luckily, it didn't seem to be a problem here. "Ralph already told me about your bracelet, so I guess it checks out. Our refugee quota's already fulfilled and these guys are ready to-"

The front door rattled, making both of them look up as Ralph stepped out onto the porch. Allison made herself smile.

"Hey," he said breathlessly. Sounded as if he'd been running around inside. His eyes fell on Allison and a lump seemed to form in his throat. "Uhh."

"H-hi." He cleared his throat. "Uh, huhd about Adrian. Fuckin' shame." He bounced up slightly and looked past them, perhaps searching for the body.

"Certainly is," Frank agreed. "What's the matter?"

Ralph lowered himself and sighed. Then he surprised both of them by looking straight at Allison, like he was sorry. "You ain't gettin' to Serrano Point."

Allison blinked. "What? Why?"

"It- it ain't you, it's Connah, he's been real paranoid lately about skin jobs gettin' into Serrano with all the other refugees." He looked at Frank now. "We gawt orders to relocate em' to North Hollywood RL-4."

"A fucking camp?"

"Uh, yeah."

"These people have been living in hell and he wants us to dump them in a _relocation_ camp?"

"No one's gettin' to Serrano yet, Frankie." He slumped. "Sorry."

"Fucking..." Frank sighed. "Goddamnit. Alright, alright, I'll, uh... break the news to them, I guess. Goddamn." He gave one last look to Allison. "Listen..."

"What..." Her quickest route to Serrano Point was dashed. Allison's mind starting working over-time on alternatives. First thing's first, though.

He sighed again. "Just wanted to say sorry. The message'll have to wait."

Allison said nothing. Frank rolled his neck on his shoulders and went inside, his posture tall and (hopefully) confident.

"I'm really sorry too," Ralph said. He moved over to her and wrapped his arms around her, clearly thinking her distressed. Allison let him do it. "But hey, means more time together, huh?"

He was really rather warm. "Ralph, it wasn't really like that."

Passion is a dangerous thing. Ralph's passion for her, for his new-found feelings, for sex, for her, blinded him to everything. It really was rather a bemusing, thoughtless spectacle to behold. His tone haughty, his body made from tension and positive feeling, he said, "You sure?" and he moved to kiss her.

Allison let him do it. He wrapped his arms round her tighter as Allison moved her hand up to his lower jaw bone and snapped her wrist lightly to the side, a resultant _snap_ cracking from Ralph's spine as she severed the vertebrae.

He crumpled to the ground silently.

Allison flexed her fingers and looked up at the door. No movement within. No signs of distress, either.

Leaving Ralph's corpse to twitch, she walked over to the armored personnel carrier, casting a glance at Adrian's unmoving body as she went. Standard procedure was to lay down a beacon that would alert nearby aerials. They'd swoop down and destroy the target, along with the resistance enclave within, but in this situation she had no time to wait on that. The humans might be gone by then.

She vaulted up the side of the APC, walked across the roof, and examined the plasma cannon for a few seconds before squeezing herself past the rail guards surrounding it, settling down into the seat and below the targeting system. Most humans didn't have the skills nor the reflexes necessary to effectively guide such a large weapon, which was why the targeting system was computerized and mostly automated. Still, there existed a manual override for emergencies.

Allison flicked a switch and pulled down a lever to her left, next to the screen. The computerized targeting reticule faded away to a more traditional, true-color view of the cannon's "iron sight." She grabbed the controls and pulled the weapon over towards the house. The weapon had an auto-load function upon booting up. Rather a convenient, time-saving innovation by Westinghouse so long ago.

With the gun aimed through roughly the middle window of the house, towards the very center, Allison fired the first shot.

There came a roar of hydraulics; the plasma bolt itself made absolutely no noise as it carved its path through the window, passing cleanly through and melting the glass and wooden boards. The shining purple scythe hit the ground and burned everything within a ten meter diameter with a loud, crackling explosion, followed by the sound of fire; the house served as a perfect vehicle for ensuring more destruction. The screams floated up immediately, turning quickly from confused and surprised to agonizing and frightful.

She pulled a small lever to her right side from left to right, loading in another plasma cell. She swiveled the turret towards the porch and fired a shot into it, sending wood and plaster flying in all directions, the splinters and shards supercharged and melting.

Allison took this moment to peer past the turret and examine the house. It burned very swiftly, and the exit was now blocked. Still looking at the inferno, she pulled the lever again and turned the plasma cannon back towards the house, selecting a random location and firing again. Some secondary explosion shrieked suddenly from within, sending a plume of flames spouting out of the roof. Probably a plasma rifle going critical. Someone finally screamed from within, and Allison heard wood snapping inside. She waited.

A strong stench of burning flesh filled the air.

After a few seconds, the sounds of screaming and pain ceased completely. The average temperature within the house easily exceeded a thousand degrees temperature, essentially cooking alive that which had not been obliterated in the three shots Allison had expended.

She aimed at the corner of the house and fired again, taking out what few support structures remained, making the entire structure tremble and collapse into a burning ruin. Smoke and ash plumed high into the sky like a smaller Hiroshima.

A quick evaluation of the situation put the casualty figures at ninety nine percent. A generous estimate.

Still.

Allison brushed some dust out of her hair and climbed out of the firing seat, leaping off the APC. She pulled the 10mm pistol out of her pants and began to circle the house. The smell was even stronger this close. The auxiliary smells of fecal matter, sweat, and even flesh were easily overcome by that of burning wood. The heat was intense enough to make Allison's safety sensors flash in fitful warning, but she ignored that.

Around the backside of the house, she found Frank, lying on his back, writhing in the sun. Burn wounds pockmarked his body, his shirt had burned off and one of his hands was disfigured and blackened. He'd also wet himself. And he was still alive. Still conscious.

Allison's lips twitched slightly. She pointed the 10mm at his head and knelt next to him.

"I was afraid I'd be discovered by your dog," she whispered. "We're both so lucky it was sick."

Frank made a noise.

"John Connor makes mistakes every day. Small ones that terminate his own people arbitrarily. It's unavoidable."

He thrashed up, trying to smash her with his upper body. He didn't have the strength to manage even that.

"You might view it as a mistake," she continued. "It made you all die. It was perfect, though. He knows casualties are unavoidable due to his own actions... He knew what to do."

Allison glared down at Frank. "And that is why he must die."

She shot him through the head. She got up, went around the house, and left a beacon next to the APC. An HK Aerial would swoop down on it shortly.

On her way out, she found Adrian's body still crumpled against the Corvega, and she stopped to shut his eyelids before moving on in the direction of the coast.

------------

_"-you failed to define your messiah again, you failed to define him."_

Cameron blinked. She was in the backseat of Derek's truck. John was in the driver's seat, and Michael next to him. They spoke in low tones. Loud music played upfront. She didn't move an inch.

"-I just feel, I dunno. I mean, are you alright?"

"You know I'm never alright..."

Mike guffawed. "Least you're admitting to it now."

"I'm serious. I fucked up royally in there."

"I'm not judging you, man."

"You don't judge _me._ Not much."

"I judge you. I hated you up there. You scared the fuck out of me."

"I... I know, I know. I'm sorry about that, I honestly am. I've felt... weird, ever since that day. Lately, especially."

_"You failed to define your messiah now, here I am, here I am, ohhh, here I am."_

"John... I mean, this is the first thing you learn... You _need_ to learn... You stay together, you don't push people back, no matter how fucked up you are inside. I stay by you. I love you."

John didn't answer.

Mike shook his head.

_"My name when I left you was Henry..." _on and on.

"Sorry."

"It's okay. You're right, anyway."

_"Now they're gone, now they're gone. You failed to define your messiah again, you failed to define him."_

John went on. Neither of them regarded Cameron. "It sometimes feels like people are out to... just screw with me all the time, test me, see me, see if I'm cracked up to what I'm supposed to be. It fucks with me. In the head."

"I dunno," Mike said.

"You're right. I've been dumb today, honest. We stick together from now on, all of us. Even braindead back there."

"Sounds good."

They shook hands.

"Just tone down the stuff, okay?"

"What... hey, yeah, okay."

"It's just, I know you care and all, it's just I have someone else. We've been over this shit a million times it feels like. You gotta stop."

"Promise is a promise."

_"You failed to define your messiaaah again, you failed to define hiiim. You failed to define your messiah again, here I am, here I am, here I am-"_

"Promise," Cameron said.

John and Mike whirled back to look at her, and Cameron had to instruct John not to crash the car.

**A/N: **I honestly don't want to seem like a nag, but I'm more productive when I actually know people are reading and, more importantly, reviewing and offering insight. Even if it's just to shout out, I'd really appreciate it if you took the time to review at the end. I've been really slow on the writing as of late and reviews remind me when people are paying attention.

Thanks, and I hope you enjoyed that.


	10. Carrots and Apples

**No Trespassing**

Chapter Ten: Carrots and Apples

_"ALLAH AKBHAR! ALLAH AKHBAR!" _

_"NEEK HALLAK!"_

"_Koos othlek!"_

Constant, unending gunfire. Nerve rattling, leg rattling, soul rattling gunfire. It just never fucking stopped, and oh god, the voices, they never stopped too, they were worse, so much worse than any other sound, the _malice_ was, oh god-

_"Sharmuta!" _

_"ALLAH AKHBAR!"_

_"Wake up!"_

Rumble rumble rumble here comes the cavalry, too late, all dead, already shot, already pissed yourself, already killed them-

"Dude, wake up!"

Porky's eyes flashed open. He stared up at the bright, shining sun, nearly finished as it was in the sky, about to call it in for the day, about to let the moon take it's shift. Reminded him too much of that horrible place, felt he was still dreaming. He closed his eyes and whimpered.

A split second later a hand shook him on the shoulder. Porky cried out and looked up at the floating figure standing near him. He pulled back in his blood coated seat, grappled uneasily with his pistol.

"What!"

The bus driver held a finger to his mouth, shushing him. "Shut up already..."

"Ge- get me... to... uh..." Porky blinked and looked back outside, taking stock of his surroundings. Urban jungle, just like... just like when he'd passed out. Everything quiet... no cars, just the low ambiance of the city in the background... Where...

Oh god, it all came rushing back...

That fucking cunt Reese shot him.

Oh god. Where... he'd fallen unconscious, how long... ? Jesus God... He glanced up at the bus driver. Only feature he could really discern was the guy's ethnicity, Latino. He also looked incredibly annoyed, and also a bit frightened.

"Where..." Porky mumbled.

"It's where you wanted to go, man." The man rubbed part of his hair line, crested with sweat as it was, and raised his arms apart obligingly, like he was being diplomatic and polite.

Porky struggled to remember what he told this guy. Anywhere? Anywhere but where he'd been, where Derek had been? Oh god...

A car drove past the mostly empty bus and pulled over a good hundred feet away.

Where... where? Stupid memory...

Oh, right. Daffy was waiting for him. With Kyle in storage. He was... warehouse district. Sure, yeah. Totally discrete, no cops, just hobos. Perfect place to plant a little boy for keeping.

Oh goddamnit... Hillary was fucking dead, Derek screwed up the deal. No money. No deal. Those were the terms. No money and no deal meant dead Kyle. And Hillary was _fucking_ dead. Who was gonna do it now?

No deal... no money... no cut. Fuck. OH, _fuck._ He'd been shot, how... how the hell was he supposed to pay for hospital fees, how...? No money, goddamnit, no...

Porky whimpered again. The bus driver shoved him slightly on the shoulder.

"_Keep your fucking greaser palms to your goddamned self!" _Satisfied, Porky collapsed again into the seat, his chest heaving. He didn't... feel like moving.

The bus driver grumbled. "This is the second fuckin' time this has happened, and I ain't takin' no more shit, man. Off the bus."

"Fuck your bus..." Porky groaned. He sounded like a whiner, a little boy.

"You're bleedin' all over tha fuckin' seat, I ain't explainin' this shit to my supervisor. Get off so I can get back to work."

Porky glared at him. Why couldn't he just fucking shut up and leave him alone?

Right, though. Totally right. He couldn't stay here. Had to find Daffy... had to rest. Lay down under some nice blankets, get... bandaged. God, he felt dizzy. He absently reached down and ruffled a bit underneath his shirt, feeling his chest. He... oh man, how'd that happen? There was a _hole_ there. A perfectly round, wet hole. Didn't even hurt... not even a sting.

Porky raised the gun up, waving it slightly. "Move, move, I'm goin'."

The man grunted his approval and pulled a lever next to his control panel. With a hiss of hydraulics, the bus doors opened. Porky slowly moved himself up off the seat, taking a cursory glance back at the thing. It'd been _blue. _Now it was _red. _Like, all over. He turned from it, gulping. All him. All of that, him.

Holy crap.

Walking felt... easy. Just one step, two step, and then off the bus. The hard part was how _weird_ he felt as he did this... he felt... empty, tired. He felt his insides slosh around as he moved, like... like they were getting shallower, weaker. Small... niggling pain in his stomach, going up his back, too, but other than that he felt very little.

Porky stepped off the bus, which immediately shut its doors and drove off without so much as a fare well. He silently stowed the pistol in his jeans and looked around the street.

There was a small, grey sedan up the road, to Porky's left. Around that and around the merc was the warehouse district, lonely and desolate. Fat, steel constructions everywhere, all rusty and gray, their shadows made tall by the settling sun. Somewhere, hundreds of meters away, a large truck drove down the street. Not a sound traveled through this place. Just refuse blowing lightly on the pavement, the noises of L.A. proper to the east. Porky sucked in a breath and started limping his way down the sidewalk, attempting to jog his memory for the location of the warehouse. It'd... been in his head, made himself memorize it, but now he couldn't remember for the life of him. Why was it so hard?

So tired. He wanted to just lay down and go to sleep...

But he walked. He left a small, trickling trail of redness behind him, fresh and attracting nearby bugs already.

He looked at the sedan as he passed it, but he saw no one inside. Whoever'd been driving it was long gone. He kept walking.

Pass La Plata street... make a... a right? Or left? He glanced worriedly up at the street sign. _Washington Avenue. _No La Plata. Where'd it go? Oh god...

The directions were on the tip of his goddamned tongue. He could... think about it, perceive them in his head, the _words,_ the _facts_ just wouldn't come to him. Felt like teasing, he was being played with.

Maybe Daffy would... wait.

Cellphone. Yeah. Hell, why hadn't he thought of that before?

Porky fished through his pockets for a moment, feeling the phone in his hand, but not able to _grip_ it, y'know? Like his fingers just didn't want to work. God, felt like none of him wanted to work except his legs...

He managed to get a good grip on the phone and pulled it out, immediately thumbing in the numbers with extra careful precision. He looked around the street again. Still empty. Still okay. He whimpered and put the thing to his ear.

_"We're sorry, the number could not be completed as dialed-"_

"What..." He checked the number as the mechanical voice droned on.

Oh, seven NINE four three...

After a few seconds: "Porky?!"

"H-heya."

"Wh- dude, you sound awful, what the fuck?"

"I g-got shot."

Silence. Daffy started breathing loudly.

"W-w-w-" he stuttered.

Porky closed his eyes tightly for a second and glanced back around the empty block. Blood rolled uncomfortably down his side, matting his clothes to the skin and dribbling down to the sidewalk. He felt so tired.

"I'll be fine," Porky managed, somehow able to find his gruff voice again. "Listen, uh... I'm, uh..." He blinked rapidly, "gruff" voice disappearing rapidly now. "I dunno where I'm supposed to be going. I'm in the warehouse district, after... uh... after the bus."

"What happened?!"

God, what _did_ happen? Slipped his mind for a second there... oh wait. Yeah. "Um, Hillary, Derek killed 'im. I got, uh, got outta there."

"Oh thank god..."

Porky blinked again. "What?"

"Dude... we got played."

Oh god, he was gonna talk about something complex and Porky wouldn't friggen' understand a thing the guy said, not in the state he was in... "Uh, listen-"

"They came and took Kyle, man. They took him to another location, told me to stay put."

"What-"

"I dunno! And now Hillary's fuckin' dead, but it's like they were expecting that. They said to just wait! Fuck! It all makes sense now!"

"Uh-" No, it really didn't. God, his side hurt. It was getting much darker out all of a sudden, like the sun had decided to speed up its descent. Or was that only him?

"It's a conspiracy!"

Porky whimpered. He realized the darkness he perceived was merely a shadow falling over his path.

"Uh, yeah, so... are you okay?"

"N-no."

Footsteps behind him, even and unhurried.

"Dude, just lay down somewhere and rest, no point in staying here anymore. I'll come find you! Don't worry, man. Just stay put, lay down."

Porky stared up at the sky for a moment, like he was appealing to some higher power, and then he looked behind him, just turning his head slightly. Derek Reese walked behind him, a silenced pistol held across the small space between them.

He stopped and gulped hard, still looking at Derek as the man mouthed _Keep talking. _

Wyatt turned and stared down at the ground, watched blood fall, sprinkle onto the pavement below him.

He wasn't gonna make it.

"Where are they taking him?" Wyatt asked as calmly as he could.

Rustling sounds on the other end. "Uh, I'll tell you when I get to where you're at, sort a busy right now." Daffy chuckled nervously. "Uh, hey, where are you anyway?"

He rubbed his lips with the back of his hand and looked back at Reese again. Considered lying, just to spite the man. He considered lying for all of two seconds before he decided he wanted to live.

"On the corner of Washington Avenue and..." he looked up at the street sign again and saw _La Plata _written there in white, stenciled letters. Wyatt blinked. "La Plata."

"Oh, easy. Okay, just sit there. See you in a few, man. Uh. Don't die."

"Okay."

_Click. _

Wyatt put his hands up on his chest and closed his eyes for another few seconds, thinking hard about his place in the world, his outlook on life. He thought about his sixteenth birthday, the day his girlfriend kissed him for the first time. He thought about getting bad test grades and his parents wanting him to go to a better college. Iraq. These mask wearing guys. He thought about all he could have done with the money. He also thought about how tired he felt, how he'd probably die of blood loss even if Reese didn't kill him right now.

Thought about that initial rush he'd felt when they took Kyle from the park. Oh, Jesus.

He turned around and glanced at Derek Reese. The man cocked his head slightly, not a hint of emotion showing up on his face.

"Please..." Wyatt whispered.

No response.

"I can help you find him..."

He wanted to be back in college, to play beer pong on weekends. He wanted to study and make his mom and dad proud. He wanted to renounce guns and gun-related things for the rest of his days. He wanted to go back to his little apartment in downtown and just sleep.

Wyatt gulped and tried to smile at the man.

"I want-"

Derek shot him in the head.

----------

It's a beautiful day. The streets are filled and everyone's moving to and fro. The sky is cloudless and the sun shines down, making the skyscrapers of L.A. shimmer in its light. Normal. Happy.

When suddenly... there comes a rumble. Low at first, barely discernible above the hustle and bustle of downtown. But slowly it strengthens in intensity, and what starts as a mild shaking becomes a full-on cataclysm of rock and debris, rocketing from the ground. The people, the cars all react as one organism, practically at the same exact instant: they go crazy. An earthquake, surely. Can it be the Big One? That continent shaking disaster all Californians fear? Maybe that goes through everyone's mind when they feel a slight tremor. Is this it? Is this the beginning?

It hardly matters, for this is not any mere earthquake. It's something far worse, something bizarre and incredible. The ground splits in half and more rock flies out... along with... something else. Everyone sees red at first, horrifying redness flowing out of the crater. Lava! Magma! Too hot, get outta there! The stuff pops, sizzles, burns anyone who's too slow to get out of the way. Impossible to imagine, yet there it is! The lava rises far into the sky, and underneath is charred brown sediment and rock, scraggly formations forming a sharp, horrifying contrast to the buildings that surround it. A whole city street engulfed in lava, everyone's running away! From the inside of the hideous mass come glowing poles, a bouncer, terrible mood music, and scantily clad women spewing in different directions!

And on the surface of that great volcano are the words "Mount Vesuvius."

--

John blinked.

What- Where?

Volcano?

Someone kept talking. What's... His vision refused to clear, he felt like he'd been... drugged, or...

He felt a deep fatigue in his chest, sitting down and staying put. His head, his mind were wobbly and lethargic. Couldn't think straight, real tired yet unable to go back to sleep. He sniffled and felt like he had to sneeze. Laying down or... he was laid down. Okay.

"You think we should stop for now?"

No response. The speaker... Oh. Oh, yeah.

He'd fallen asleep, heh. John quietly glanced around the back of the truck, first looking out the opposite window. A large, concrete-plastic volcano stood in view, its maw overlaid with another coat of red, sort of violet-ish, paint. A bunch of green words hung slightly below what John was capable of seeing. He looked back up at the top, half expecting to see a half-naked girl teasing him there. No such luck. What a fucked up dream. Everything came back to him. They wouldn't let him drive, too worried about how tired he'd felt. Made Mike do it.

Mike went on. "I mean, you guys have visited, what, two places today? Well, _we,_ I guess. Anyway, y'know... both times we got into fights. John almost fucking died there, and the cops..." He paused, looking at her. "You alive?"

"Strictly speaking, yes," Cameron replied.

He sighed. "Cameron..."

"Yes?"

"... Never mind."

"If you wish to address security concerns, talk to John."

"John is, uh..." he looked back at John, making him close his eyes quickly. "Look, you're his bodyguard and... he's sleeping right now, so-"

"John asked to command this mission. It would be inappropriate to go over his head and abort."

Mike scoffed. "Like that's ever stopped you from telling him what to do."

"It's different between me and him."

"Whatever. That doesn't matter. The point is, I've lived in this world long enough to know by now that we've left a really big trail for the cops to follow, especially if we keep getting into gunfights. We oughta give it some time before we make our next move, y'know?"

"Bring it up with John."

Mike said nothing for a bit. John wondered if it was safe to look again. When Mike spoke again, it was barely over a whisper. "I'm asking _you._"

"My opinion is irrelevant."

"Ye-_Fuck you._ What the hell is up with you?"

Silence. He heard someone settling slowly against the seating. Probably Mike.

"... We're here," Cameron said.

"We can't do anything right..."

"What?"

"Nothing. Forget it." He moved back and suddenly John felt a hand shaking his shoulder. "Wake up."

He had plenty of experience with this, although it never, ever worked on mom. John pretended to still be asleep. Deep inside, it was sort of a defense mechanism. What the hell were they talking about?

"John, wake up, we're here. C'mon, put on a good face."

"S-stop..." John mumbled. He did his best not to smile.

He heard Mike giggle. "Oh, please."

"He's faking," Cameron said.

This gave Michael pause for a second. Probably he was looking nervously at Cameron, probably a secret exchange went between them. _How much did he hear? _ John kept quiet, rolling over slightly. He bet he could get away with it for a minute or two, enough to suss out what those two were up to. Questioning his authority was a given, but... It felt like something else, something secret. He didn't like it.

"Hm. If he's faking, he won't feel_ this._"

John realized, quite abruptly, that after his, ahem, "dream" he'd sort of gotten a tad... excited. If Mike- Ohhhh, _shit_. Fuck it. His eyes flashed open. "I'm awake!"

Mike burst out laughing.

------

Twilight was beginning in earnest as they left the truck. The sky darkened enough to cast a weird sort of smokey gloom over this part of the city. Maybe it was the smog in the air. L.A. was pretty bad about that sort of thing. One big politician had wanted to do something about that --if he could become governor-- but the recall on Gray Davis failed, so it looked as if the skies would be clouded with smoke for quite a while yet.

Not like it'd matter much longer if...

The club ahead of them was called "Mount Vesuvius," with the V's shaped into strippers who were bent at the stomach. It sort of troubled John. Not the strippers, but the name. He hadn't seen it up until now and he had a fricken' dream about it. A thoroughly ridiculous dream, at that.

... Maybe it was more clairvoyance coming out? Oh, fuck that. That was just a coincidence. A self-made prophecy, the library shit, don't...

John shivered. _Whatever. _He absently readjusted the gun in his jeans. So far they were up to one unused shotgun, two Berettas, and one stolen Beretta. And they weren't gonna go without them this time. The bruise on his chest hurt way too much for him to forget about it, to just go in half-cocked once more. And goddamn, so far he was making a pretty big hash of this "leader" thing.

It wasn't for lack of trying, though. He'd make this work. Hell, they kept getting what they wanted, they just... couldn't help the gunfights from happening, or the critical injuries, etc, etc, and such and such. Goddamnit.

A bouncer in a grey overcoat hung out near the entrance, his head tilting left and right periodically as he searched for likely suspects. Probably this was when the club got really popular. John checked the address on the street corner once again. **1105. ** Man, at least that fucker Aldus had been good for something. John was sort of glad the guy was dead, now that he thought about it. Still... Mike had been stupid to hand that gun back to him. He could have shot the kid in the back. John was mostly just pissed that the guy couldn't live the rest of his days in prison, living with what he'd done, the father he'd gotten killed.

Eh.

John nodded to Mike and Cameron as they walked next to him; they'd sort of flanked out to the left and right exactly like bodyguards. They treated him with kids gloves now, especially after him getting shot in the bank. In a way, that sort of comforted him. He wouldn't be alone, at least.

"Remember to ask for Joey Cook," he said. "If anyone asks why, just, uh..."

Mike cleared his throat. "We'll think of something."

"Yeah." He glanced up and checked the neon signs hanging slightly underneath the _Mount Vesuvius _one.

**HOT EMPLOYEES - PRIVATE SHOWS - ALCOHOL - INEXPENSIVE**

..._What? Employees? _Were they kidding?

The odd language aside, he was mostly worried about the presence of alcohol. That meant they had to provide good enough ID. Mom had carefully arranged for John to be eighteen so he'd be able to get away with a driver's license after he'd dropped out of school, but she made it just so he wouldn't be able to go out and buy beer. It hurt his head just thinking about it. Cyborg assassins thirsted for his blood and she chose to concern herself with him surreptitiously knocking back a Coors at midnight.

Which was ridiculous, of course.

From here, right alongside the curb, they could hear synthesized electronica inside. Also some lyrics, but John couldn't really understand them. No one ever really paid much attention to the music in these places. Beneath the plastic volcano was the darkly painted concrete side of the building, with more neon signs and a few posters showcasing the girls inside. _Heather, Felicity, Dominique, Velvet. _Just once John wished he could see something off-beat, like Marge, or whatever.

The bouncer glanced at them from behind a pair of slick sunglasses. He looked sort of like a reject from a Hong Kong action film with the trench coat and all. John wondered if he even had a gun.

"Don't make an ass of yourself," he muttered to Cameron.

She grinned at him. "Sure."

John blinked and went back to staring at the ground.

The bouncer started to yap in a paradoxically smooth, rich voice as soon as they'd gotten close enough. "Well hey there boys and girls, welcome to Mount Vesuvius, best voyeur emporium God ever put on this Earth. Don't dig too deep, though cause 'en you get burnt. Hiss."

"I-" John tried.

"Now my name's Alexander, 'n I'll be watchin' over your good selves tonight as well as the lovely ladies available fer ya viewin' pleasure. We here at the Mount promise you a simply un-fer-getable experience 'ere that'll keep ya comin' back ever single night, this here's our honest-to-Jesus guarantee."

"Okay-"

"I see we've got two gentlemen and a lovely lady who're lookin' to have 'emselves a simply excellent time-"

Mike coughed.

Alexander went on with an unfailing grin. "Two gentlemen an' a one lovely lady all lookin' to have 'emselves a simply excellent time, Miss Velour'll be your hostess inside n' now I'm gonna have'ta ask for some ID to send ya on your way into this 'ere active volcano."

John gratefully provided him with his fake license. The bouncer accepted it, checked it for a split second, and handed it back.

"Mmmhm, seems like ya _bona fides_ are in order, now how 'bout your fellow voyeurs 'ere."

"They're with me," John said patiently.

"Now I'll have ya'll know I'd be very cross if I heard there were some underaged drinkin' goin' on in the premises. I'm the thin grey line between good ol' fashioned carnal entertainment and the harsh criminal underworld on the outside, n' I ain't toleratin' none of it."

"Do you know a guy named Joey Cook?" John asked.

Alexander the bouncer chewed on his lower lip for a second, his eyebrows elevating past the confines of his gaudy sunglasses. "Mmm. That that queer from the cooking channel? Name like that'd suit em', the wife watches his dang show all the time, but she don't really know what she's missin', I tell you, I can cook for-"

"Thanks, I guess you don't." John pushed lightly on Mike and Cameron, forcing them inside. He made tracks behind them.

"Have ya'll selves a good time 'n there!"

"Strange guy," Mike said idly as they walked through the threshold. It got darker inside for a few moment, you could barely see ahead of you. Sort of like the prelude to a theme park ride.

"He talked too much," said Cameron. "People who talk so much have something to hide."

John sighed. "And maybe you're just programmed to be paranoid as hell and he's just... quirky."

They glared at him. John rolled his eyes.

A little further inside they came back into --what little there was-- the light of a very small lobby. It had a velvety sort of feel to it, with every surface soft and darkly textured. The posters from outside made a return appearance on the back wall, and underneath those were two comfortable looking plush benches. Behind the front counter was a woman dressed in a surprisingly immaculate floor-length black dress. She smiled pleasantly at three of them, although her eyes lingered just a tad too long on Cameron. The cyborg cocked her head slightly as she perceived this, but didn't say anything. The woman was... well, yeah. She wasn't bad to look at, and John thought he might be staring, so he decided to stare at the posters instead.

"Welcome," the woman said. Like Alexander she seemed made for public speaking, albeit not as whacky as the former. "There's an eight dollar cover charge per head for minors."

_Crap. That bouncer buzzed ahead. _

"Oh, sure," John said, reaching in his pocket and feeling nothing. His wallet was... other pocket, right. Jeez. He reached in, fished it out, and checked it, half expecting to see a moth fly out. He actually did have a bit of money, but it wasn't even enough for _him _to get in."Uh." He looked up to see Cameron already removing a few bills from a hefty looking stack of green. Oh, sure, leave the cyborg with all the cash... Mike noticed John's reaction and grinned.

The woman accepted the money and smiled. "Excellent, enjoy yourselves. The bartender will ask for appropriate ID, so don't think about it. Everything else is open to you, however. Ask about the private shows."

"You know a guy named Joey Cook?"

Still smiling, she shook her head.

"Alright, thanks."

John's cellphone started to rumble in his pocket as they started to walk away. "Damnit," he muttered. If it was Riley, he'd find time to talk. If mom, god forbid...

He let it ring. They'd find a place to sit and then he'd-

Oh. Oh, wow.

Past the corner was Mount Vesuvius itself. John envisioned most strip clubs as these shoddy, sort of wooden-concrete places with lots of hollering and dirty middled-aged men. Girls with sticky looking hair and a lot of bad smells, y'know, the stereotype. This place was... hell, it was _classy._

In keeping with the apparent theme, the club was spacious, but deceptively low-ceilinged. A bunch of faux molten stalagmites hung slightly down from the top, and beneath that the club was rimmed with red, soft-surfaced walls. That wasn't what really got John's attention though. It was, predictably enough, the girls. They were fucking stunning. You wouldn't think them... y'know, highly paid escorts or strippers or whatever cause they radiated class, every bump of their hips, every move seemed planned and choreographed. They'd wink occasionally at you like they were formal and well-respected entertainers, they seemed _controlled, _really. Sort of weird. More than that, there was... there was a lot to look at, heh. A bunch of them were dancing in synch on this big plastic stage that was made to look like an overflow of glowing lava, bathing them in an artificially orange light.

The rest of the club was a little less stark, with red couches and recliners abounding in an orderly line surrounding the stage and some tables and poles interspersed liberally between. Along the wall was a very long cushioned bench that circled the entire room. John caught a few people already... ehm, being serviced. Patrons --and employees-- were everywhere, but the gender difference was pretty easy to tell. Cameron was probably the only... "girl" in the room who was wearing more than two articles of clothing.

Towards the front but tucked off to the side stood the main bar. Despite its location, the shelves of alcohol behind the bar were prominently lit, immediately catching the eye and attracting one to the secondary attraction of the club; booze. A green-lit staircase hung off towards to right, and finally, there was a row of tables at the far back, but there weren't a lot of people over there. How many people came for the friggen' food, anyway? You could go to McDonalds for that, you could only come here for... Holy crap, he wasn't breathing.

John just stood there, probably looking like a lost little boy until Cameron wrapped her hand around his.

"Huh?"

She raised an eyebrow at him, unsmiling. Crazy as it may sound, it undeniably meant _Don't get any ideas. _

John stared back evenly. _Since when have you had a say? _

-------

They grabbed a table at the back of the place, far from the hijinks going on in the main room. It was hard to dismiss eye candy so cavalierly but they had a job to do. Cameron elected to go off and interrogate some of the girls; she reasoned that her also being a woman would disarm them and make them more psychologically willing to divulge the necessary information; her words. With that fairly creepy statement done with, off she went. Apparently she thought he couldn't get into much trouble with Mike around.

John glanced at the other teenager, who merely nodded at him, his throat catching on something.

Sure. No trouble at all.

He looked out at the strippers for a few moments before turning his eyes back to the table. He traced his finger on the surface of it, going around and around in ever decreasing circles until he kept jabbing it into the same place.

"So," he said, getting up, "Wanna drink?"

"She told us to stay put." Mike smirked and looked up at John before he could complain. "So let's go."

"Heh."

And on they went. The club was expansive enough so that Cameron wouldn't realize they were gone right off the bat, and even if she did, what the hell could she do about it? They moved past a couple of oversized red couches and started toward the bar. Mike kept his hands deep in his pockets while John continually rubbed the back of his neck; felt real itchy. He also got the feeling he was blushing way too much. Funny. You always think you're gonna be cool and confident in a place like this, but it was just so _open _and _there_ that he couldn't help feeling just slightly overwhelmed.

"Hey sweetie!"

They passed a girl --and a man, by extension-- who were rather, ehm, busy. The stripper seemed uninterested enough in her lap dance to holler at John.

He grinned and nodded to her. "Hey there! How's it going?"

The woman said nothing for a moment. She probably would have paused altogether if she wasn't currently on the job. The man, a dude in a business suit with the words _NexStep _written into the fabric, canted his head up and glared at John. "We're busy."

John laughed and moved on, waving back to the woman. She didn't wave back. And they kept going. Ahh...

"How often do you go to these places?" Mike asked.

"Not often. I think this is the second time I've ever been in a, y'know."

"Oh." _And the first? _was the unspoken question from that moment onward until they reached the bar. The man standing behind it wore an expensive looking suit and his hair was carefully gelled. He had this prim-and-proper no nonsense look on his face, sort of like a butler. John was beginning to get a better feel for the regular clientele... no wonder no one knew a two-bit thug.

The bartender inspected in a practiced, perfunctory sort of way and frowned. "I don't think you're old enough for this..."

_Jeez, they're fascists here. _He was reminded of Allison the bartender, who didn't give a rat's ass one way or the other. He'd really liked her...

"That's okay, just... y'know, whatever's allowed." He looked around the bar and decided to sit down on the nearby stool. Mike quickly sat next to him.

"And the first?" he asked, smirking guiltily.

John shrugged. "It was a while ago, so, y'know, don't worry about it." He wasn't exactly at liberty to discuss it anyhow.

The bartender came back with water. He planted the two sweating glasses in front of them and then made towards the other end, his nose turned up.

"Windbag," John muttered. He turned and looked around for a few seconds, shaking his head as a woman winked and walked by. "Sorry this place isn't more your speed, heh."

"Shut up," Mike said.

He blinked at him as Mike bent his head over and sipped from the glass. "Uh... sorry. I didn't..."

He set the glass down hard and turned on John. He didn't seem angry, just a little annoyed. "You know what's weird? In 2025, no one gave a flying fuck what I was like. We were all human, no one cared." He put up a hand. "I can't go one day now without hearing about it. I didn't realize that in some countries people would fucking _kill_ me just because I'm, y'know."

John turned and started to run his hand up and down the glass, rolling his head a bit and looking away from Mike.

"And you especially," Mike said.

"Me."

"Yeah, you."

"You realize I wouldn't have such a problem with it if you didn't keep, y'know, coming onto me and whatever?"

Mike paused a second. "I said I'd stop. I'm done. I respect that."

_Yeah, sure. _No matter what he did, Mike always... was that called "true love?" Being so into a person, no matter what happened, that you just couldn't get them out of your head no matter how much you tried? You can't take a step back, you can't say "stop?" Sounded like obsession. At the same time, a small part of John wanted to reciprocate just for that feeling alone. He'd already gone through this, but... it felt nice, at least. But even if he did entertain it, he'd feel awkward as hell and he refused to entertain that. He'd already tried rejecting Mike with insults when reason failed. All he had left was to say "no" over and over again.

John thought about Riley. He thought about whether or not he'd stop loving her if she asked him to. Whether he really felt "true" love for her, if such a thing existed.

He couldn't visualize it. Not whether he would or he would not, he just...

"Then I'll stop talking about it," John said.

"Thank you."

"You're a real fucked up best friend, you know that?"

Mike blinked. "W-what?"

"What?"

"I'm your best friend?"

John shrugged. "I don't have any other friends." He picked up the water and stared at it for a second. "Hey!" he yelled.

The bartender strutted back over, raising both brows high.

"A Bud," he said. He tapped the counter.

"ID, please," the bartender said at once. Mike blinked and turned back around, very silent all of a sudden.

"Fuck ID," John spat. "I can pay for it, now go."

"Hmph." The bartender whirled around and glided on over to the tap. John glared at his back. _That's right, do as I say. I'm John freaking Connor. _

Mike scratched his chin. "Yeah, me too."

The bartender stopped for just a moment, as if to acknowledge the request.

"You drink?" John asked.

"_You_ drink?" Mike smiled.

"Woohoo!" someone yelled in the club.

"Not really."

"So why...?"

"I dunno, I really don't."

"We're on a mission, y'know."

"So why did _you_ order, then?"

"You lead by example, John."

John grunted. Whatever, neither of them were saints, so it didn't matter. "Oh, hey, by the way!"

The bartender sighed.

"Do you know a Joey Cook?"

And he paused in mid-step.

John and Mike leaned forward over the bar at the same exact second. It would have been funny if John didn't feel so dead serious all of a sudden.

Slowly, the man turned around. "Why do you ask?"

"I just wanted to talk to him," John said.

"Mm."

Mike made an annoyed sound.

"So...?" John said, trying his best to smile and failing. All other distractions suddenly fell by the wayside, like he'd suddenly developed tunnel vision. This guy knew who they were after. He represented a quick, easy way out of this and back onto the mission. So nothing else mattered.

Slowly, he nodded. "Yes, I know him. He's not on our... valued list of clientele, per se. I'd advise you against meeting him. He's not the sort of man you just talk to."

"I'm sure he can't be that bad. Is he here right now?"

"Not that I'm aware of, but I wouldn't really know. He's rather the unsavory sort."

"Who _would_ know?"

The bartender hesitated again. "Can I bring you your drinks?"

"What's the matter?"

"I'll... tell you both in a second if you would just be patient."

John waved his hand, leaning back from the counter. "Whatever, take your time." After a moment he sighed. "I hope he actually knows something." He glanced back at the club and found Cameron staring at him from across the room, conversing with a stripper. He felt like a fly being observed by a spider all of a sudden, and he turned around again, reaching blindly for his water.

"So what's she like?" Mike asked.

"Creepy as hell," John said softly. He downed some water and wiped his mouth.

The other teenager laughed. "No, no. Not... her, I mean. Your, uh, y'know. Riley."

"Oh. Why?"

Mike shifted uncomfortably, probably wishing that question hadn't come up. "Well... I dunno. You seemed to like Cameron a lot."

A mental barrier erected itself easily over the past instances of John considering sex with his robot protector, all the tension between them, the times they displayed undeniable affection for each other. Times they kissed. He constructed a wall to cover all those instances and said, "No. Not really, no. She isn't real, not like... not like that. C'mon."

"Did something happen between you?"

John looked at Michael. The question had been far too on-the-nose to have just been spur of the moment. "I told you... she hasn't been normal since, y'know, since that explosion. She's been weird."

"I know. Did something else happen?"

He looked away, said nothing and tapped his fingers on the counter again.

_She appears at the mouth of the tunnel. Even as his mouth falls open in shock, he realizes he expected to see her sooner or later anyway. Just not this soon. In a way, she's more dangerous than the liquid metal shithead who was after him four years ago. She knows them. Knows their psychology, where they'd run to. It's easy for her. _

_As Sarah revs the engine and that blank, murderous look gets closer and closer, John wonders what he --honestly-- would have done if they actually lost her today. Even with her stalking him, he wouldn't help but feel a "this is weird" sensation when her absence really falls on him. He's grown dependent, far too dependent on her. She gets his food, protects him as he sleeps, goes to school with him, and he loves her desperately. Is this her way of getting back? When she finally finds him, will she gloat? _

_Suddenly they're on top of her, and he doesn't see her as they pass. He feels her attack, though. He feels it in his whole body, and gravity suddenly stops working as the van flies through the air and crashes against the ground. _

_Inexplicably, as he looks around, he realizes he knows this place. It's so familiar. _

"John?"

"Nothing."

He sighed. "Okay, Riley, then. What's she like?"

_Thank god. _John looked up at the ceiling. "She's okay. Funny. Pretty. Big, uh... y'know." He smirked.

Mike snorted.

Yeah, that's Riley for ya. Not a bad face, not a bad chest and... you know next to nothing about her. Oh, yeah, she's an orphan. Her parents died in a fire. She's apparently fond of archaic phrases and she seems to orchestrate events imperceptibly. When a Terminator went after you, she batted not an eyelash and it was _never_ mentioned again. You know her way fucking well, Johnny.

"I guess you guys met in school?"

"Yeah. She just walked up to me one day and asked me to skip with her. I brought her home and we hung out awhile. Got to know each other... she's nice, y'know." He grinned. "It's all carrots and apples with her."

Mike started laughing. He folded his arms together and looked up at the ceiling, smiling broadly as though remembering something fondly.

"Wait, what?"

Before Mike could answer the bartender suddenly returned with two beers in hand. John couldn't be any less interested now. Mike gladly accepted the thing and took a slight sip, making a face when he pulled the glass away. John didn't bother with his, wondering whether he should remind the barkeep of his obligations or ask Mike just what the hell was so funny. He decided to keep to business and grabbed the bartender by the arm before he could slip away unnoticed.

"Hey! Let me go!" he cried.

John dug his hands into the man's skin, making him wince in pain. He pulled the man closer, dragging him half-over the counter top. A couple of glasses toppled and fell over, making a huge racket that went completely unnoticed due to the hijinks going on behind them. The bartender made a slight "meep" sound deep in his throat and relented, making John crack a smile. "Hey, you said you'd tell us about Joey."

"Err, yes."

"So?"

"Can you please let me go?"

John glanced over at Mike, who appeared to be ignoring them. That was actually a good thing, now that he thought about it. Looking back, he said, "No. But I will once you tell me, okay? All on you, buddy."

"Uhhh, well..."

"No pressure."

"Let me think, I can't think when you're... where's the bouncer...?"

"Never mind where he is, you'll be fine. C'mon."

"Well, Joey, uh... Um... He... visits one of our cooks every, uh... week. Yes."

Mike looked up from his drink.

"Go on."

"_And_, well, I assume they speak at length whenever they're not... doing business."

"What kind of business?" John cocked his head.

Mike suddenly planted a hand on his shoulder. "Uh, where is this cook?"

The bartender suddenly seemed a castaway regarding a life vest, turning eagerly to a supposed savior. "In the kitchen, of course! You can find him there, yes! He's not allowed to discuss business, though!"

"That's okay, I've got business. Go on and tell him." He nodded at John.

"Huhhh," the bartender suddenly seemed far less interested in being "saved" by Mike.

John let the poor bastard go, frowning. He felt as if he'd just missed something vitally important. As the bartender beat a hasty retreat, John turned to his friend, raising an eyebrow. "Uh?"

The kid coughed. "It's, uh, easy if you know what he's talking about. The cook's, uh..." He frowned. "I forget, is prostitution illegal?"

"Yeah." Oh, jeez.

"Then that's why the guy didn't want to talk about it."

"Oh, fucking gross."

Mike shrugged.

"Dude, this is no time-"

He got off his stool. "Relax, I know. I'll grill him for everything he's got and then leave, nothing else."

"Good." John slouched down into his seat, suddenly embarrassed beyond belief. What the hell did he care, anyway, if Mike... Goddamnit. He did. Sort of. It was weird. He felt Mike lingering for a bit, as if he felt everything _wasn't_ okay.

John supposed there was something else after all. "Uh, before you go?"

"Yeah?"

"Why were you laughing before?"

Mike brightened. "Oh! It was what you said! When I was growing up people would say that _all_ the time, it was just weird to hear it again."

"Carrots and apples," John repeated numbly.

"Yeah. It means happy thoughts, or something good. Cause, y'know, what else is good and happy post-JD besides carrots and apples?" He smiled again, a little bitter this time. "Anyway, you'll stay here then?"

"Yeah." He stared at the wall, his very first meeting with Riley playing over and over again in his head now. It's a common phrase, surely. Right?

Mike patted him on the shoulder. "Okay, I'll, uh... I'll be back. See you."

"Yeah." Mike went past the counter, briefly checked if it was okay with the bartender (and it was) and disappeared behind a door.

John glanced at the drink and stared at it for a minute or two before he decided to down the whole thing.

**A/N:** There will be a *ton* of action next chapter, so stay tuned. As always, your thoughts and critique are appreciated.


	11. Everyone Hates Cameron

**No Trespassing**

Chapter Eleven: Everyone Hates Cameron

Cameron had realized long ago that she had preferences when it came to social interaction. A short exchange with a stranger regarding current weather conditions ranked low on her scale (irrelevant, trite, unintelligent,) while any conversation with John rested significantly higher (relevant, engaging, higher chance of manipulation.)

An infiltration unit is meant to have a certain neutrality in regards to human interaction. Preferences impair unit effectiveness. It makes them more like the people they are attempting to exterminate. It was part of the reason why most units are read-only. Cameron had no such inhibitions. Ever. She'd long since grown to... dislike certain things and certain people. The clerk at the local SuperMart. She was a person Cameron did not like. She spoke too much of her dearest prized labradoodle, a genetic freak of human interference in the breeding habits of canines. She had an odd eye twitch that made Cameron suspicious, like she would randomly lash out with a butcher knife at any given moment.

Perhaps it was merely because Cameron disliked shopping and gathering useless materials where she could be doing what she'd been assigned to do. What she _wanted_ to do. Most units tolerate useless tasks if it advances their mission. Or they don't, and they simply cannot do anything to improve their circumstances. Either way, they had no choice.

Cameron had a choice. Soon she would say no. Soon, someone else would talk to the strippers and she would talk with John and find out everything she _really_ wanted to know.

That choice was coming up fast.

"Hey honey," Dominique said. She stood roughly seven meters from Larry, a Morris Enterprise technician on his lunch hour. He worked long nights. Their proximity suggested Larry had already slipped a twenty dollar bill into her bra and she had completed her assignment.

Cameron stood in front of her, unmoving.

"I think you lied to me before," she said.

Dominique smiled sweetly and attempted to move past. Cameron interdicted and adjusted her position.

"What are you doing?" the stripper asked. Still calm. In control, but slipping. Or so she thought.

Cameron could snap her neck like a twig at any moment. Dominique's illusion of normalcy, of control in her life, was finished as long as Cameron stood nearby.

"Where does Joey Cook live?"

The stripper cocked her head and slouched slightly, pouty. "I already told you, bitch, I don't know. Don't make me call Alexander."

"Your eye keeps twitching."

Dominique immediately rubbed her eye, leaving a red mark when she moved her hand back down. "So?"

"It's a tell." Cameron took a cursory glance around to confirm no one was paying attention. Thus satisfied, she rounded back on the stripper. "You're lying."

"No I'm not!" She looked very pathetic, like a child's toy, dressed in lingerie for men and boys to gawk at her. She had no agency. The only meaningful choice she'd ever made in her life was to become an object for voyeurs.

People like her did not survive Judgment Day. They stayed in their houses and strip clubs and burned like pieces of dry leaves.

"Does he visit you much?"

"I. Don't. Know. Joe."

She was also remarkably stupid.

"He's part of a gang, you know." Cameron narrowed her eyes just slightly. "A lot of people are after him."

"We get nice people here," Dominique said.

"Don't be dumb."

"Bitch."

Cameron's lip quirked. "I think you want to protect him. I think you're afraid."

Dominique looked away, trying to move past again. Cameron moved to the left.

"He's not a gang... person." She sucked in a breath. "It's my break, please move."

"What are you afraid of?"

"Nothing."

"You know him." Cameron grabbed her arm. Not rough, not painful. Just held onto it. Cameron rolled her head slightly, her hair sweeping to the side.

The stripper nodded silently, unable to look her in the eye.

"Alright," the Terminator whispered. "So we can talk to each other, then?"

"Lemme go."

"Sit down, or I will grab you again."

She let go. Dominique sat down on one of the plush red seats. Cameron stood over her, staring down. "Good. I'll be done with you soon. I want to meet Joey, to discuss business."

This was what she preferred.

"He's a nice guy. We get nice people here."

Cameron stared at her.

The stripper shrugged. "What do you _want_ me to say?"

"Who does he frequent?"

"You're really scary, you know that?"

"Answer the question."

Dominique laughed nervously. "We just talk, y'know? Yeah, he doesn't come here for us."

"What do you talk about?"

"Himself. We're friends. He's nice."

"Nice people usually have something to hide."

Silence.

Cameron really wished they were alone. That would make things much, much easier. Merely speaking with someone enables them to dictate the course of the "conversation." A dark warehouse, bright lights, bound hands and legs, and some handy tools went a long way towards removing that delusion from their minds.

"Are you gonna hurt him?"

"No." A lie.

"Why do you wanna talk to him?"

"Business." Another lie. "You're avoiding my questions."

She sighed. "He lives in an apartment downtown. I've been there once."

Cameron smiled brightly. "Thank you. Where, exactly?"

"Are you _sure_ you're just-"

"Yes, I'm sure."

Dominique told her where, exactly. Cameron committed it to her databank. They could finally leave this place and get back to the mission. And after that, John would go back to his girlfriend and continue to slip away from everyone, Cameron would continue to glitch and Mike would... go wherever he would go.

Life as usual. Somehow, she... _preferred_ being out here, focused, away from the dramatics. It felt more real, familiar. She wondered if she could... hm.

"Thank you for explaining."

The stripper beat a hasty retreat. Cameron watched her leave and turned slightly to watch John as he drank at the bar. She should really tell him not to do that. It was against the law.

------

"Hey."

"Uh, hi."

The guy stood half over a steaming pot of... something, Mike wasn't entirely sure. He kept looking into it every few seconds like he wanted to make sure it wouldn't disappear on him. Between those times he glanced worriedly at Mike.

He looked around eighteen in his face, which was fair and really smooth looking. Sometimes people seem made from marble, all hard surfaces and angles, but this guy wasn't one of them. He hadn't known a hard angle in his life except, maybe, while on the job. Mike would have called him at least a bit younger if he didn't seem to exude the sort of feeling you get from people on the cusp of adulthood. That face also had a pair of soft blue eyes and some parted blond hair that looked like it got cared for obsessively. It just hung down, no fuss or mess, all neat and silky. Made him almost want to pass his hands through it just to see what it felt like.

Mike would have killed to look like him. He was the sort of generic kid you'd see behind the counter of a store or a restaurant and you'd wonder how he didn't get into modeling. Then you'd make your purchase and forget all about him.

Mike folded his hands together, trying to look timid. The other kid just hunched over his whatever-it-was, looking tired.

"I'm Aaron," he said.

"Hey. Jamie." He didn't offer to shake. One thing that stood out was his voice. It sounded deeper than his features let on, Mike expected something a lot more... sweet sounding? He really didn't know.

The awkwardness settled in, as Mike knew it would. They both made themselves busy looking at irrelevant things, like Mike looked down at his stolen shoes, and Jamie concerned himself with his pot of whatever. He avoided looking at Mike, perhaps hoping he'd just disappear suddenly.

Mike wouldn't have minded that himself. Sometimes he wished he didn't have to be like this. Sometimes, he wished he'd grown up during a time like John did, a time where he could learn how to act like a real human being and not the fake one he felt like.

This was his beat, though. It was his thing. Because more than his desire to be "normal," he wanted to be useful. That counted for more.

"So..." Mike bit his tongue and launched into it. "I-"

Jamie interrupted; "Are you lost?"

"No."

"Oh." He stared at the wall and let the whisk he was holding fall to the side.

"I'm, uh..."

Jamie turned and looked at him. Analyzed him, really. Mike smiled sheepishly and rubbed at his hair, feigning coyness. He wondered when, exactly, he should ask the guy about Joey, or if he should just do it right now and save himself the trouble.

And at the same time...

"Who told you?"

"Bartender."

"He's an idiot."

_No shit. _Mike gulped and nodded. "You okay?"

"Heh, yeah. I'm okay. You wanna go somewhere else?"

"Uh, yeah, can we?"

The other kid looked away from him now and tapped his hands rhythmically against the side of the stove. He looked really miserable, and Mike half expected him to just say "no."

Maybe he shouldn't look at him as a human. Just as an objective, right? Someone who has information you want. That's all, right?

Jamie looked at his watch for a moment, then nodded, biting his lip. "Come on."

----

Around his second drink he realized it had to be true. It had to be.

Yeah, he was kind of an easy sell with the beer, but what the fuck. Sometimes you feel all happy and shit when you're buzzed, John didn't know, maybe he was a bad drunk or whatever, but he just felt _wretched, _everything hurt. Maybe he was obsessing too much over the carrots and apples thing, but suddenly everything he and Riley had ever done seemed wrong and illegitimate now, like it was all fake, _weird_, like... Okay.

Mexico? She heard his name. Real name. Didn't even batt a fucking eyelash. And Cromartie, she just... _accepted_ it, didn't even talk about it afterwards. Okay, and _before_ that she _saw_ the fucker, the metal fucker just went into his house, she _saw_ him right there, and then later in Mexico. Oh god...

_Here's a robot to protect you! _

He had... he had to... cry? No. Stop. Wait. What he needed was more alcohol.

She knew... she knew everything. She knew who he was. Oh god, he still... did he love her? She _lied_ to him. How could he go on like that?

He wanted to smack her in the goddamn face, tell her to leave him alone and never see him again. Why? Why? How did she...

Okay. You're jumping to conclusions. Hey! You're drunk! You're _stupid_ right now. Carrots and apples, well, sure, it's a common phrase.

_And now I'm justifying. _He took another long gulp and whimpered to himself, slumping over the counter. The one girl who ever liked him was a liar. She probably didn't even really love him. Wrong. Bad. Lied to. Mom _told_ him he wasn't fucking safe with anybody, not even his "girlfriend," god, he hated her, she was always so _right_ she was so much smarter than he was, what good a leader would he be if he could get tricked and lied to this easily?

But no! You're... just... drunk...

There had to be an explanation. Half the people he knew were time-travelers from the future, so when he saw the signs he naturally jumped to conclusions. The reality was much more mundane, right? There was an explanation. Had to be.

Whenever they talked... they... joked around. They... talked about _nothing_. Cause John couldn't tell anyone anything about himself, and Riley was...

She had nothing to tell.

Hohhh god.

"Hey," he said. "Hey." His throat felt dry.

The bartender glared at him. "What now?"

Fucked up, so fucked up. _Mike_ loved him, _Cameron_ adored him, Riley _loved_ him, but she _lied_ to him, so what the fuck did that prove?

"Nothing," John said.

"Then why did you call to me?" The man rounded on him, annoyed.

"Lemme' alone," he muttered.

"Feh." Off he went, snooty bastard.

This music gave him a headache. Seemed constrictive, kept pounding in his head like a mallet. Wanted to be outside. He wanted to go out and find that fucking Terminator and blow it to hell. Most importantly, he wanted to forget this ever happened, so more alcohol... yep...

John raised his hand to call the barkeep again when someone touched the back of his neck and sat down next to him. He barely reacted to this, staring ahead and lowering his hand bitterly. Cameron.

"You want to talk about it?" she said. He could never get over the fact that she kept _changing her voice_ around him. She used inflection, gestures, she showed emotion on her face, she transformed near him, became human.

He opened his mouth to start spouting random bullshit about Riley, how much he wanted to hurt her, yell at her, punish her for lying to him. But he realized, no, he's drunk. Very drunk already. He refused to fuck up again and instead shrugged. "I, uh... just..."

"Your blood alcohol rating is 0.059."

John giggled. "Y-hah, no shit." He looked at her lopsidedly and thought she looked fucking _stunning_. Y'know, sometimes he just didn't like how she looked cause she was all emotionless and shit, but other times he didn't give a crap. She was beautiful to him. "D'ya like, y'know, get a whole read out, or somethin'? Just a list of numbers and stuff tellin' you how I'm doing?"

She smiled. "Something like that. I don't always need it to know how you're feeling, though."

He grinned lazily. "Yeah?"

"Yes. Where's Michael?"

"Ah, he went to go fuck some guy." He snorted and started laughing his ass off. Cameron raised an eyebrow. Hell, she looked almost concerned. God, what the hell did the machines get off by making a such a _damn_ fine cyborg, eh? "Heheh, no, no, no, I'm kidding, he, uh, there's some dude in the back. Y'know this Joey guy?"

"Yes. I found out where he lives."

"Y-yeah, so it turns out he's a fag, just like Mike, right? So this guy in the back, he's a cook, and he's like a whore, except for gay guys? Y'know?"

Cameron nodded patiently.

"Y-yheh, so Mike went back there... like, Joey _apparently_ was a customer, right? Heh, y'know, a _customer?_ Eheh, so uh... I dunno, he's gonna talk to the guy and see if... uh... wait, did you say something?"

"I know where Joey Cook lives."

John blinked. "Wait, what?"

"I know-"

He raised a hand to his head, suddenly feeling stupid. "Oh, fuck. Should we get him?"

Cameron shrugged. "I don't see why it's necessary. We should talk, John."

That sounded like an excellent idea. Hell, Mike could take his fucking time, even screw the pretty boy if he wanted to. He deserved a fuck, right? Heh. Right. Yeah, John was thinking he wanted another beer, actually.

"Sure!" And he raised his hand again.

-----------

Somewhere down West Olympic, on either side of Mount Vesuvius, four black vans emblazoned with **S.W.A.T. **emblems cordoned off the area. Police tape was erected, loudspeakers set up on either side. Traffic through the area stopped within minutes. Alexander the bouncer was currently smoking a joint at the time and was too high to notice. He lazily settled himself against the side of the building and tried to make it look as if he was watching out for punk-ass kids.

Men in cartoon masks quickly filed out of the vans. Every fourth masked man wore a large generator pack on his back with an attached tube-and-socket, ending in a sparking prod. The rest of them were armed with all manner of submachine guns and pistols. There were about twenty in all. A man went on the loudspeaker every so often to keep incoming cars diverted from the area.

A man in a George Washington mask shouted orders to them, prompting the assemblage to quickly file out down the street, towards the club like a demented, marauding circus show.

------------

Mike shivered as he stepped into the freezer along with Jamie. Cold, packaged boxes lined the sides of the room, each of them brown and labeled neatly with the word _Meats. _ It wasn't _freezing_, more like... a tomb, or an underground basement. _That_ felt familiar, yeah. Just very cold and very dry, really. The humming of air conditioners filled the chamber, generating a constant _buzz_ that got to be somewhat comforting after a while. Although Mike usually liked peace and quiet, it wasn't really that sort of situation. Silence adds weight to an already awkward situation, and this shit was nothing if not _fucking_ awkward.

And plus...

He raised an eyebrow as Jamie went over to the left and clicked on a temperature gauge. Who'd want to bump nasties in a place like this?

The older kid looked back at him, frowning all bitter sweetly. "You don't have to tell me. A freezer, yeah."

"I've seen worse," Mike replied, looking around for a second and sitting down on a box. It was good and solid.

"I'll bet." Jamie came over and stood a little near him, sort of fidgeting every which way. He really wanted to get this over with, probably. "So, uh-"

"You seem to really hate this," Mike said, checking the labeling of an adjacent meat box. _Smither's Fine Cuts Ltd since _annnd it trailed off.

Jamie grinned sardonically. "Yeah, I'm a real tragedy, aren't I? Los Angeles faggot getting treated like a toy, y'know, really, save me the pity. You've heard it happen to people and it's happened to me, we're all human and we gotta make money somehow."

_Money. _Everything was about money in this world. Well, the same held true for post-JD, but really that was mostly barter and shit. People didn't really care about income, or making a steady salary. Just surviving another day. In a lot of ways, Mike really, honestly preferred that world in some ways to this one. There was a lot of judgment and stupidity permeating this existence that got swept away after the nuclear fire burned the world to a crisp.

Hell. _Money_ probably made Skynet happen in the first place. Money could go fuck itself.

"I was just saying..." Mike said. "I didn't want-"

"I'd actually prefer it if we kept the 'saying' shit to a minimum, mkay?" He sighed. "Remember to talk to Kevin -- uh, bartender, I mean -- cause, y'know, he actually pays me."

Mike resumed on like he hadn't been interrupted. "I didn't want to offend, I was gonna say." He smiled lamely. "That's, that's all."

Jamie stared at him for a couple of seconds, his eyes going a bit wide as though he hadn't _ever_ heard anything like this. Or maybe with as much sincerity (because Mike DID pity him. No matter what, it was unavoidable to feel pity,) at least. He sagged, smiled for the first time since they'd met, and gently rubbed a hand on Mike's cheek. Crazily intimate for the situation (ironic, that,) and it made the younger kid smile.

"You're fine," he said softly. "I don't offend easily."

Mike nodded silently, looking away suddenly. Not out of disinterest this time, more... yeah. "How much you make for this?"

"That's an odd question. Thinking of joining me?" He grinned out of the corner of Mike's eye.

"No." He turned back.

"Yeah... well, I don't blame you." The understatement packed into that statement was probably fucking overflowing. It could be worse. It could be totally against his own will, after all.

See, that was one thing "the past" had a lot of. Free will. Mostly in the future you have your orders and you follow them. Or you have your demands, or you die. Aaron was a bookish type of kid, he did a lot of reading and he knew a lot of people who'd been on the outside, before he and Mike joined Tech-Com. In some holes, in some of the "new" societies they'd take the sterilized people, the people who couldn't have babies, and they'd use them anyway. Make them slaves. Concubines, Aaron called them. It was a retarded, stupid system that Connor had to forcibly put down before they could join him.

A holdout from "the past," really. People fuck each other over with their own personal hang ups and refuse to get on with the world.

So yeah, at least Jamie had a choice in the matter. Maybe it wasn't the best choice, but...

You're rationalizing him. You're seeing him as a human, Mike.

_And he is. So?_

Remember your mission.

Right.

He folded his upper lip over his lower and glanced a bit at Jamie, who stared right back at him, smiling sadly. It occurred to Mike that he wouldn't necessarily mind doing this with him. The guy wasn't half bad, which was probably a requirement of his job, and, y'know, he sort of... wanted something. Anything, really. Cameron had been way too unsettling in her approach (which still revolved on constant loop through Mike's mind. Whether he should tell John, what the fuck she'd actually wanted, etc, etc, etc, around and around,) and John was... well, yeah. That didn't really have a chance of happening. Ever.

Still.

"Hey," Mike said.

"Hey. Listen, I know this is awkward and all. Is this your first time doing this sort of thing?" A pause. "Because, y'know, you're nice enough that I wouldn't mind talking you through it."

Mike smirked. "Nah, I know what I'm doing."

The older kid sagged a little again, relieved. "Okay, so..."

_Bite your lip, Mike. Ask him. _"Hey, Jamie?"

"I don't wanna rush things, but I've got some shit cooking back there, so..."

"Yeah, um, do you know a guy named Joey?"

Jamie blinked. A flash of instant, split-second recognition in his eyes betrayed his next few words. "Uhh... not really." He smiled. "Names don't really get tossed around a lot, heh, y'know?"

"Yeah... you're pretty nice, I don't see why."

"Heheh, thanks. You're sweet, Aaron. How old are you?"

_Damnit. _"Sixteen."

"Hey, just two years older. That's not so bad."

"Yeah, uh, you're sure don't know Joe? Joey Cook?"

"No Joe. Hey, when we're done, you wanna maybe meet at twelve o'clock, y'know, if you're free?" He smiled.

Mike shook his head. "No. Definitely not free."

"Oh, that sucks... Maybe your number, then?"

"Maybe. Hey, yeah, let's go, eh?" Mike absently adjusted his pants, feeling the Beretta 9mm.

"Oh, yeah, almost forgot."

They both laughed.

-------

"Running _away_? Pfffft, where to?"

"I don't think you're very happy here," Cameron said, passing John his fourth drink. She did it without comment, without complaint, without bitching. Y'know, lotta girls they're like (or maybe John thought they were like, he didn't know) _you know you gotta stop_ but Cameron, nah, she just kept it coming. He couldn't remember the last time he'd felt this fucking _great. _Just really happy, what the fuck was she talking about with _you can't be happy with this,_ but she was wrong, she wasn't so smart, he was fine, yeah, yeah.

_Wow_ he was drunk. It was pretty funny.

"Naaah," John slurred. "I mean, I don't even have'ta go to _school_, and y'can't say that about most guys, right? Eh?"

"Education is conducive to a happier life."

"'nother quote. See, that's your problem, Cam, you just spout quotes at people, like y'got no fuckin' way of sayin' somethin' yourself, eh? Nah, _Riley_, she's a fuckin' liar and all, but she's at least honest." He thought about that last sentence and giggled. "I'm _so_ drunk. Hold on, that made no sense."

"I still got the meaning," Cameron said.

John sipped. He offered her the cup. She refused, smiling sweetly at him.

"Eh, besides, I don't need school for what I'm doin', right? Y'know, if I'm gonna do this thing, best do it with two feet in, right?"

"Yes, with both feet. But that's very lonely, isn't it?"

"You said so," said John. "I may as well make the most of my life before it _ends,_ right? I hope I get drunk a lot in the future."

"You do. Sometimes."

"Heheh. How do you know?"

"I'm usually there."

John gulped and looked at her. God, she was beautiful. He could easily see past the whole, y'know, the whole hyper-alloy combat chassis and homicidal tendencies and just, y'know, there's Cameron Phillips, his confidant, his girl, his... eh...

His...

Cameron spoke up again. "Why is Riley a liar?"

"Oh, heh. Oh, nothin'." He wasn't drunk enough to lay down a bomb like _that._ Cameron would break her goddamned neck if she knew. Besides... y'know... maybe if he was sober he'd condemn her and all, but he wasn't. He realized, perhaps stupidly, that he could fix this. He could make it work. He could get more out of her, he could... love her.

Because he still really, honestly did like her. She was still a person, they'd... figure this out.

John coughed. "She jus' y'know, told a little white lie, nothin' big."

"I don't like her."

"Yeah, big news flash." He giggled again. "We all know you're jealous."

Cameron paused. "Jealous."

He nodded enthusiastically, stupidly. "Yeaaah, fuckin' jealous, Cameron. You gave me the big ol' stink eye yesterday when I came home with my neck lookin' like that-" he gestured to where Riley had given him a hickey "-you know you're jealous. You want me to friggen' stay with you all the goddamn time, want me to be in love with you, Cam."

"I was trying to kill you, John. I didn't mean that when I said it."

He looked at her. "I think you _did._ We've kissed twice, and you wanted me to fucking bang you behind a church."

She quirked an eyebrow, looking distantly amused. Yeah. This was real fucking funny.

Well. It sort of was. Heh.

"It doesn't matter what I think, John," said Cameron. "You're the only one who matters. It's only your decisions. I'm here to protect you, nothing more. I think we'd all be happier if you simply forgot about her."

"I'm not gonna love a fuckin' accessorized assassin."

"Yes. That would be unnatural. It's considered unnatural to be in love with that which is not real."

"No shit!"

"I'm a very close proximity to what is real. My skin feels real, my lips feel real, and I am perfectly able to simulate human emotion. I'm very close."

"But not real," John said.

"Yes. Not real."

John leaned over and kissed her on the lips. It was quick and almost brutal, really. "Fuck you, manipulating bitch."

"You're a very complicated human being," Cameron said, practically ignoring what had happened, like she'd expected it. "Certainly not the norm."

"Fuck this noise," he muttered. "Can we talk about somethin' else?"

"Am I bringing down your happy thoughts?"

He thought about that for a moment. Currently, he wanted to sneak out into the back with her and order her to blow him. Was that a happy thought? Wasn't sure.

"Are we winning?" John asked abruptly.

She knew what he was talking about. "That depends."

"On what?" He finished his glass and thought he might be getting addicted.

"On whether you've made anyone mad or not."

He was about to ask what the fuck that meant when the lights to the club shut off. The music died instantly with a loud, warped _boom,_ and women and men started yelping and crying out in terror all at once. John ignored it. He kept fumbling with his glass even as Cameron abruptly grabbed him and started to drag.

------------

Mike started down on his pants, staring up at Jamie as he did it. This was gonna be great. He was totally gonna bring out his gun when the guy least expected it. Sure, it sucked for him, and Mike sort of liked the guy, but he had orders from John. It was gonna be surprising as hell and he'd be way too off guard to _not_ tell Mike everything he knew.

Jamie was, well... He clearly liked Mike and he made this more of an intimate thing than it had business being. He'd been all slow, all meaningful looks, all smiling and shit, tickling, random feeling. He liked it. Mike supposed he liked it too. Sort of annoying, but Mike supposed he had that right. He had the right to enjoy it. Anyway, he stood a bit over Mike, already dispensed of his shirt and watching the other kid.

He brought down his jeans slightly to reveal the pistol just as the lights abruptly died.

Oh, fucking son of a bitch.

"What the hell?" Jamie muttered in the darkness. He laughed. "Heh, that's great. At the moment of truth and _bam._"

Mike ignored him, ripping the Beretta out and pointing it roughly where Jamie was standing. Fuck this shit. "Jamie."

"Yeah..."

"I don't wanna alarm you, but I'm pointing a gun at you."

Jamie laughed. "Hell yes you are. Can I, y'know, touch it?"

Mike blinked. Oh, son of a bitch. "No, Jamie, an actual gun. A Beretta SF nine millimeter pistol."

"W-wait, what?"

"An actual gun. Back up a bit."

"Wait, hold on, what the fuck do you mean?" Was that someone yelling back in the club?

"Can you please shut the hell up and do as I say?"

A loudspeaker buzzed somewhere in the club. _"EVERYONE INSIDE ON THE GROUND, CELLPHONES OFF! TURN THEM OFF! IF WE SEE A FUCKING LIGHT YOU'RE DEAD!_"

-------------

Cameron toggled on her thermal scanners to compensate for the darkness and grabbed John by the collar. He relented easily; alcohol is a very potent depressant.

"Wha..." he muttered as she threw him over the side of the bar, sending a cascade of beer and drinking glasses tumbling over onto the ground. She quickly unholstered her pistol and climbed up after him as a small army's worth of commandos filtered into the strip club. The reactions of the occupants was easy enough to predict, and so Cameron wasted no time paying attention. She laid a hand on John's head and pushed him further into cover, peering out in silence. Escape. Think of something.

"EVERYONE FREEZE, ON THE GROUND!" one of the men yelled. He fired his submachine gun into the ceiling.

-------------

Mike strangled a terrified groan in his throat and looked toward the door. What the fuck?! There came a quick _pop pop pop_ as a machine gun fired somewhere.

"Onmygod-" Jamie's voice sounded hollow and terrified.

"Back the fuck up!"

He backed up. "A-Aaron?"

"Jamie, _shut up._"

"You can't have a gun, I saw you, you didn't-"

Mike waited a few seconds.

Someone fired a few warning shots in the strip club again. As they did, Mike aimed towards the far wall and fired. The barrel flared up and bucked in his hands, illuminating the room for a split second in its brilliance.

"AHH!"

The spent round clattered to the floor. "I'm not fucking around, Jamie."

"Don'tfuckingkillme-"

_"WE'RE LOOKING FOR A BRUNETTE GIRL WITH BROWN EYES AND A LEATHER JACKET. SHE'S BETWEEN SIXTEEN TO TWENTY, AND YOU'RE ALL STAYING THE FUCK PUT UNTIL WE FIND HER."_

Oh god. Oh Jesus Christ. Fuck Joey Cook, they were... Okay, calm down. Calm. Do your job, they'll work it out. Oh, god, they're looking for _her? _

Everyone fucking hates Cameron.

Mike used his free hand to pull up and button his jeans. He talked quickly. "Just answer my questions and I'll leave you in here. You'll be fine."

Someone yelled in the club. A woman kept shrieking like bloody goddamned murder, just wouldn't shut up.

"D-d-dude, I- Why?!"

_"Look,_ Jamie, I really don't have time, I honestly don't, I-I _like_ you, you're okay, y'know? But I _really_ gotta go in a minute and I need you to just answer, okay?"

------------

John blinked slowly. Very slowly. What was... loud... someone was...

Cameron kept a hand over his mouth. She felt warm, very real. She was right. Close enough, y'know? Very close. Someone kept making a racket.

Someone was looking for her.

-----------

The commandos' faces were deformed and misshapen, almost comedically so. Cameron puzzled over this for a few seconds as they flew through the club, brutally and efficiently terminating resistance as it flared up. Most people surrendered, as they'd demanded. A large amount of the men were grabbing people and checking them, and then forcing them to the side.

Two of them walked swiftly towards the bar, guns aimed and at the ready. They were searching for her. Someone had betrayed them; someone knew what she was. Possibly Derek. No one else had a proper motive for wanting her destroyed.

It didn't matter. Her safety ranked secondary to John's, and he was in danger, and very, very inebriated. She'd been dumb to get him drunk just so he'd choose his words less carefully and, indeed, that had proven effective.

But ultimately that was useless now. The two commandos kept advancing, and Cameron realized they were wearing cartoon masks. How very odd.

And how very familiar. She aimed her pistol single-handedly at them and waited a second before firing.

-----------

_Pop pop pop! _

Following that came answering machine gun fire. And then the whole fucking club just seemed to explode into gun fire. Mike groaned.

-----------

John yelled as a sudden, very unexpected, and very terrifying fusillade of bullets flew over his head. The entire bar behind them exploded into tiny shards of glass, beer and wine flowed freely and splashed down onto his cowering form, the entire place blew up into chaos. People screamed like damned souls being condemned to hell, they were so scared, and Cameron just _stood_ there as indomitable as ever, and _what the fuck was going on?_

-----------

She twitched the pistol over to the side and fired again, downing the third commando who'd come over to assist. Three men with three bullets in their heads laid flat on the floor. Cameron's body jerked back and swayed under a constant barrage of gunfire.

She cocked her head, aiming towards the back and firing again, squeezing the trigger until the clip ran dry.

The gunfire stopped for a few seconds; they were either reloading, taking cover, most probably both. Her scanners initiated a cursory scan on her chassis integrity and found it to be well within acceptable boundaries.

She almost smiled a bit.

John whimpered drunkenly as she grabbed him again and led them both through the kitchen doors.

-----------

"Oh _go-o-o-d_," Jamie whimpered.

Mike kept on task. Barely. John was... Oh, Jesus... "You _know_ Joey Cook!"

"Yeah, yeah!"

"Okay, what do you know about him!"

"He's, uh-" the gunfire abruptly stopped, only to resume a few seconds later. A door in the back of the kitchen slammed open and they heard running footsteps.

"Shhh!"

Jamie shut up. The footsteps, whoever was making them, seemed to be in a huge hurry, and they passed in no time. Mike winced as one of the people out there suddenly crumpled to the ground with a yelp. The other someone helped him (him, probably) up.

------------

He couldn't keep up. He felt dazed, confused, couldn't see anything or feel anything. Everything felt dull, like his foot had fallen asleep, only now it was his whole entire body. Movement didn't come easily. All lethargic.

He grunted as he fell from Cameron's grasp and fell straight to the floor. He felt dumb. So stupid. Where was... what was going on...

Something... dangerous... his gun? Where was that? He should help her.

"Cameron..." he whispered, feeling blindly for her touch. He nearly cried when he found it, he felt so fucking helpless. Cameron patiently helped him back up and she sent them running again.

-----------

"Be quiet," Mike said lowly, "Tell me."

"Okay," Jamie whispered. "Um, Joey's, uh, y'know, he's gay, -- obviously-- and uh, he's brown haired, sort of red, I guess and uh... blue eyes, yeah. He usually wears, y'know, gangster shit, he's a gang member, y'know."

"I know."

"Okay, okay, uh... Oh. Oh, you're in a gang, right? You're like, rivals, or something? He's gay. Total flamer, I should know, you can totally get him for that. They'll crucify him-"

"Where's he live?"

"I dunno!"

The footsteps resumed. The doors opened to the kitchen again and gunfire erupted within seconds, like massive explosions going off in a chain reaction.

"There she is!"

Mike's eyes widened.

"Don't move!"

Silence for a few seconds. "Washington, we got em'-"

------

The two commandos stood side by side, holding machine guns with attached flashlights. One wore a faux gangster mask, complete with a brown fedora and a leering grin. The other, some sort of cat from Loony Toons.

Cameron stopped dead, cocking her head and considering the situation.

"Don't move!" one of them yelled. Cameron didn't move. She could only wonder why these men had chosen such unimposing gear for their job. That kept bothering her.

John staggered slightly to the side. One of the commandos followed him with his head, but not aiming his gun. The other masked man nodded his head down, talking on a radio set. "Washington, we got em', get a zapper in here-"

Cameron aimed her pistol and shot him in the head. The other commando managed to swear before Cameron shot him as well. They both fell to the ground, dead, and Cameron was already helping John along again.

-----

A Beretta SF shot off twice, and no one said anything else. Footsteps running.

Oh, god, they're _out_ there.

Mike turned abruptly, forgetting Jamie as he pulled hard on the the freezer door. Locked. _Locked? _Oh Jesus Christ.

He panicked.

"John! John, Cameron! _I'm in here, lemme out!"_

He pounded hard on the door, sending flares of pain up his hand and arm.

"HELLO?!"

Jamie was silent.

"HEY! YOU CAN'T LEAVE ME HERE! JOHN!"

----------

Cameron stopped for a brief moment, listening. She spared a glance at the nearby freezer, frowning as Mike pounded behind it again.

She looked back at the kitchen doors. The rest of the commandos were no doubt in hot pursuit by now.

No time. She grabbed John again, gently, and kept going. A few seconds later, they were out the back door, in the growing twilight of Los Angeles once more.

---------

Oh god. Oh, Jesus fucking Christ.

He heard nothing. All Mike heard were voices yelling in the club. He heard nothing in the kitchen. Not a goddamn word or sound. The air conditioners had stopped running in here. Dark as fuck, _fuck fuck fuck-_

Mike compulsively racked the Beretta and fired a shot into the ceiling. Jamie yelled.

"You locked us in here," he said slowly.

"I-I-I didn't want anyone interrupting, we... Aaron. Dude. We can't let anyone in here. I dunno what the fuck, but y'know, those guys, I mean, we can't go out there-"

"Jamie, I'm gonna fucking shoot you in the face if you don't give me _the goddamned key or open this FUCKING DOOR LET ME OUT!!"_

Where were they going?! They couldn't leave him. They wouldn't do that. He was on the team. Their team. They wouldn't abandon him, John wouldn't abandon him, not in a million goddamn years. Never. No. No. Oh Jesus Christ.

"_Please..._"

"Jamie!"

"Okay!"

He ran over and fumbled in his jeans, still wearing nothing from the waist up. Good god, Mike wanted to screw him. It was the only rational thought running in his head, the only thing that made any goddamn sense.

"JOHN!" Mike yelled again.

Jamie yelped.

"Open it." After a beat. "Joey Cook?"

"I was at their hideout once. He wanted to fucking make me join, so he could fuck me all he goddamn wanted without anyone knowing. They didn't let me." He got the keys out. "They're in the warehouse district, y'know where that is?"

"Yeah." He'd been there. Once. He got shot in the chest by some fucked up bitch who looked like Cameron.

He stuck the keys into the door, Mike could hear them turning. "Y-yeah, so, y'know, you'll find em' there. Big place called Kellco Shipping, no one-"

"Open it."

"Yeah..."

Mike abruptly felt around for Jamie's face, pulled him over, and kissed him blindly. Jamie felt around for the back of Mike's head and held his hand there, running it through his hair, and after a few seconds Mike pushed away.

"Oh man," Jamie muttered. "You're fucked up, y'know that?"

"Stay in here. Don't leave until the cops show up."

"Who are you?" They were looking at each other; Mike could see his eyes shining, only that.

"It's okay. Let me out."

"Fine... uh, be careful, kid."

Mike laughed.

The door slid open reluctantly. A pair of flashlights filtered into the room, blinding the both of them unexpectedly. This was the enemy; Mike aimed the gun as best as he could against the light.

"Freeze!" a gruff voice yelled. Slightly above the shining lights he could see two grim, almost ghoulish visages of cartoon masks, their features amplified and made hellish by the lack of light.

Mike didn't respond and pulled the trigger. Fuck his promise. Fuck. It. This was life or death.

One of the lights jerked upwards and shined against the ceiling as the holder toppled and died. Mike ducked and quickly readjusted his aim at the other flashlight holder. A submachine gun flared up almost right in Mike's face, but he was too low for any bullets to hit. The sound was incredible, ear shattering. He jerked the pistol up a bit and bit his lip as he fired again, twice. The machinegun flipped out of the man's fingers, still firing for a split second before it died along with its owner, clattering to the floor.

Or maybe he wasn't so dead afterall. One of the guys started to gurgle incoherently.

Mike stared for a few seconds before moving again, his heart beating way faster than it was supposed to. His breath came shallowly, much too weak. He'd need another puff soon...

He silently reached for one of the flashlights and aimed it around the kitchen. A pair of corpses were off to the back, near another gunmetal gray door. That's where he was going, then. He gulped and sent a final glance back at Jamie-

Mike's shoulders slumped as the flashlight fell over the older kid's corpse, his chest riddled with bullets. Jamie was half-laying down over a box of meats, like he was sleeping, except... Blood everywhere. His eyes stared at something very far away, maybe not of this world.

Mike stared at the body for a few seconds before turning away again, shuddering and reaching for his inhaler. He needed it. He couldn't walk, couldn't _breathe_ now.

--------

John's stomach roiled in his lower body, bumping up rudely against his intestines and generally making a humongous ass of itself as he tried to keep himself from throwing up. The running, the shooting, he couldn't take it, not with the beer inside him. He needed-

"Cam, wait," he gasped.

"Soon," she said simply. They were about twenty yards from the mouth of the street.

"N-no, Cameron, I'm... I'm gonna be sick..."

She glared back at him. John barely noticed as he made good on his words, doubling over and sending his breakfast out onto the cement. Cameron let go and slowly lowered herself down next to him, running a hand through his hair.

He vomited again, retching and coughing pathetically. What...

"What happened?" he said quietly. "I dunno... I dunno what happened."

"We need to go, John."

"Where's Mike..."

"We can't go back for him. I'm sorry."

"W-what? No, Cam, we-"

Cameron blinked suddenly and aimed her pistol upwards at someone. Neither of them had heard his approach, and he made them pay for that. The man jerked some sort of electrical device against Cameron's head and she briefly shook as though apoplectic and collapsed against the pavement without a sound.

"Don't move-" said a low voice.

John kicked the man's legs out. He didn't really aim the blow, so it was a lucky shot, really. The man grunted and fell back a few steps, almost losing his balance. John flew up to his feet and got a good look at the assailant before he moved forward. The man wore a heavy looking sweatshirt and had a mask of some sort. He seemed pretty lean and rangy, and that showed in his reaction time as he flailed the prod in John's direction. John only barely managed to avoid it as he weaved to the side, nearly tripping over his own feet.

The plus side of drunkenness is that you don't know when you're being stupidly reckless, and this served John rather admirably as he grabbed the man's forearm and twisted the electric prod back against the man's chest, digging into his sweatshirt. John headbutted the guy to keep him off balance and quickly searched his hand over the prod for the trigger. He found it easily and depressed it twice, sending a rather unpleasant voltage of electricity into the masked man's body.

His whole body shook like a fucking tree in a stiff wind, his teeth chattering against each other, his head jerking back and forth. A low, high-pitched whistling erupted from his lips and he collapsed bonelessly to the ground, unconscious or dead. John barely noticed. Maybe he'd remember killing someone when he woke up from his hangover, but right now he didn't give a shit, he honestly didn't, he just... Oh, _Cameron!_

He ran over to her and, stupidly, tapped a hand on her throat. There was nothing, of course. There was _always_ nothing. Why the hell did he do that? He had to stop himself from _actually_ shaking her. He like... what the living fuck did that asshole zap her with?

He heard yelling inside the club and forced himself out of his panic, grabbing her foot and starting to drag her down the alley, inch by inch. They had to get distance. It wasn't even _him_ they were after, it was her. Who the fuck betrayed them? Sarah was the obvious choice, it was just like her to arrange something underhanded like that. But she had no contacts in this year, no assets like in 1999, there was no way...

God, she was heavy. How many seconds left? _Were_ there seconds left? Was she permanently fried? Did that electricity travel up to her chip and blow it to pieces, just melt it right there?

John suddenly misjudged where his feet were in relation to Cameron's arms and suddenly tripped, falling back flat on his ass. He flailed there for a second like a goddamned turtle, drunk and disoriented like hell. Any second now, they were gonna come gangbusting down the alley with more guns and...

He heard a noise ahead of him. What-

Looking up, he found Cameron's head perked to the side, glancing curiously at him.

"Oh god," he whispered.

She pushed up silently, her clothes matted and dirty with rain water and refuse. She extended her hand down to him and helped him stand alongside her, looking back down the alley.

"Did you kill him?" she asked tonelessly.

"I-I dunno. Are you okay?"

"Systems running fine." She turned and stared at the far-off body. "He's still showing lifesigns. We should interrogate him."

"W-where's Mike?"

"No time," she said. She looked back at him, narrowing her eyes. "Stay here."

And she started off towards the guy. John leaned against the cement wall and stared at nothing, trying to listen for more... thugs, mercenaries, whatever they were. Gunfire echoed again. Why wasn't he hearing sirens?

He wanted to go back and get Michael. He was still fucking in there, maybe even dead. They couldn't just leave him... but John still had his cellphone number. And these guys were after Cameron, not anyone else. They'd let him go. It'd be alright. Hell, Mike could even tell them more about these assholes, whoever they were. Because whoever they were, life had just gotten a fuck-ton more complicated.

Cameron walked back a few moments later, the merc de-masked and dispensed of his electric prod. She nodded at him, indicating they should keep moving.

She didn't offer to help him along this time, perhaps sensing the combat high had basically forced him into sobriety.

"Cameron..." he tried. He still-

"We have to go."

No arguing. Great Leader, ladies and gentlemen.

-----------

Mike slowly walked towards the back door, pacing himself. He had to pace himself. He'd forgotten how to breathe, how to _think._ He got a guy killed. He'd broken his promise. John and Cameron were long gone. Jesus, he wanted to fucking die right about now.

He was breathing so hard that he didn't notice when three or four commandos ran up behind him and yelled for him to freeze. They all yelled it. Mike blinked rapidly and put his hands up, unable to form a rational thought. Why would they leave him?

One of the men grabbed Mike's Beretta. Another one grabbed him by the shoulders and whirled him around, and Mike found himself staring at the half-obscured face of some old looking guy with a powdered wig.

The masked man titled his head slowly, as though in wonder. He wore a slick black suit with no visible markings, and his stance seemed to be that of a guy who was important.

He was.

"I'll be damned," the man muttered.

"What-" Mike said.

The man turned to his comrades. "Knock him out and bring him to one of the vans. Radio the guys and tell them we lost the cyborg." He looked at Mike again. "Well... hello again, Corporal."

Someone slammed Mike on the back of the head before he had a chance to respond.


	12. We Break Sometimes

**No Trespassing**

Chapter Twelve: We Break Sometimes

"Uh. Cameron?"

"Yes?"

"The shotgun's back in the Ram. Ammo, too..."

"Oh."

The two of them crouched furtively near a flickering streetlight, watching the two SWAT vans that sat along the street in silence. An unarmed man wandered back and forth between the two black vehicles, occasionally whistling. He'd be easy enough overtake, and they were about to go over and steal one of the vans when John remembered --no easy feat in his current state-- about the Ram and what they'd left inside.

The possibly nerve-damaged mercenary laid on his back next to Cameron, out like a light and not making a sound. John almost thought he wasn't even breathing, but he was. Shallowly.

Another Sarkissian. Almost. Almost. Would he have minded? Maybe. Sarah wasn't here. Cameron _was_ here. All him, though. He had to take responsibility for his actions. And right now he'd gotten himself piss-drunk again. Grand.

Cameron waved her hand back at him. She had a bullet in the back of her head, a dark red spot just _there_, terminating her brown hair abruptly. John stared at it with a morbid sort of fascination, like his better sensibilities had stopped working. If _he_ got shot _there_, his fucking brains would be all over the wall and there'd be no John Connor anymore. Cameron, though... All the same to her. Bullets, feh, what about them?

It was weird. Made him considerate in a way he'd never been before, at least with so-called "Uncle" Bob.

Anyway. He backed up. Every move he made felt sluggish, like his nerves failed to react to commands at first. Just once, y'know. Just _once_ he wanted to get himself drunk off his ass without having to go through some traumatic bullshit afterward. Maybe at home... But mom would hate that. _She _could conjure up some trauma in no fucking time at all if her son decided to bring booze into the house. Derek would be thrilled, at least. More for him.

Cameron scooped up the henchman and led John back to the alley, taking a single glance past the corner before moving on again, going onto the main street, which was bare of vehicles, bare of anything, really. They could still hear voices and the occasional gunshot emanating from within Mount Vesuvius. More than what they wanted with Cameron, _how did they know where to look? _No one knew where they were, no one knew where to look. It was fucking bizarre.

John eyed the entrance worriedly, his stomach turning a bit. The only thing left was quick-talking Alexander the bouncer; shot cleanly through the forehead. On the wall was a big, messy splotch of blood. A pistol lay nearby; he'd tried resisting. Why hadn't anyone heard the shot, then? Silencers, obviously. Fuck. These guys were fucking professional, their Terminator-related skills aside.

The growing nightfall made it hard to see clearly, but the Ram appeared untouched; there was certainly no one guarding it. They had no trouble making it over there. Cameron immediately opened the door and pushed John inside, followed by the unconscious mercenary. John piled him into the seat next to him and slumped down, his head pounding like hell. Cameron made a brief sweep of the car, obviously looking for errant GPS trackers, before she came around to the driver's seat. She looked back at her charge for a moment, eyes narrowing when she found the ashen expression on his face. After a sec, she glanced up at the club, then to John again.

"Are you okay?" she asked finally.

He looked up. Blew some air out of his mouth. "No. We just left Mike to _die_. I feel pretty shitty, okay?" She already knew how _he_ felt, and he wouldn't give her the fucking satisfaction of hearing it again.

"They're after me. Mike should be fine."

Maybe he was overreacting... but the kid had been shot twice now, and... he really didn't want Mike to rack up another bullet in _his_ name. The guy deserved to not be a fricken' soldier all the goddamn time. "He has no way to get back to us. We're _leaving_ him, we need-"

"The alternative is allowing you to be hurt, which-"

"-Yeah, which you can't allow, y'know, fuck you, just drive."

Her lips twitched slightly. John thought for a single, stupid moment that she'd carry on arguing, but no, she turned and revved the engine instead. He shook his head. _So there_ is the unspoken sentiment. God, he felt messed up. He needed to fucking sleep.

What a fucked up day. He wanted to blow that Terminator to hell by _midnight_ and now they had to contend with Mike being gone and there being a group of... people after them. He half-wanted to go back home, forget all about this.

And go back to being useless? Fuck no, Johnny. No matter what, they were finishing this. They'd get Mike back, get him back safe. They'd blow that cyborg to hell. They'd do everything right. Right? Right.

Staring cautiously out the window, he reached his hand back a bit, groping blindly for... yeah, that. He grabbed the thick, weighty plastic he was looking for and pulled the SPAS-12 shotgun back up to him. He twirled it slightly in his hands, righting it the proper way his mom, his uncle had painstakingly shown him for months now, and slowly pumped it. No need to worry about ammo, Cameron had already taken care of it.

He rolled down the window and aimed the thing out towards the front door to the strip club, bringing up his thumb and rubbing his eyes fitfully. Buckshot's downright pitiful at a long range, but he could at least make them keep their heads down if anyone came out. He noticed his finger slipping slightly from the trigger and forced himself to concentrate, although he could barely feel his hands. Took a deep breath. Cameron started driving, the Ram making a loud rumble as it pulled out. John held the air in, waiting, watching.

As expected, a group of three men in masks bolted out through the front door. They started yelling bloody murder to their pals back inside, raising their guns to fire. John thought he could see an MP5 among the weapons they held, but he couldn't be sure. Definitely small arms. Thank god for that much. They waited a second or two before shooting in unison, the guy with the submachine gun crouching to control his recoil. Tiny explosions of asphalt kicked up around the vehicle.

John returned fire, sending forth a tongue of flame from the barrel of the twelve-gauge. The noise pierced through his skull, making his head throb with pain. The shotgun smashed back into his shoulder, and he had to get his bearings back before he could pump it again with a loud, satisfying grind of plastic against metal. Okay. He fired again.

The mercs flung themselves down to the street, covering their heads as pellets cut the air around them. The man with the MP5 didn't let up, though; he was a bit further from where John shot, and perhaps more ballsy than his comrades. Didn't matter. He was also a freaking good shooter, as it turned out: John groaned as a few bullets rattled against the side of the truck. He was too inebriated to really think he could _die_ right now, but he _did_ know Sarah would want a fucking explanation for why the truck was all shot up and-

Gritting his teeth, he switched his aim as best he could over to the shooter and blasted another shell. The pellets went wide. He pumped again, his vision going blurry all of a sudden as a bright light from the club shined in his eye. _Hell._ The truck picked up speed, finally, and Cameron spoke up in that calm voice of hers. "I'm going to ram through."

Before John could think up a stupid _Dodge Ram_ pun, the truck smashed through the faux SWAT blockade, sending John flying back inside. The shotgun clattered noisily onto the floor as he hit the unconscious merc in the stomach with his head, leaving him too dazed to even breathe for a few seconds as Cameron floored it. The noise of gunfire dwindled into nothingness, replaced by the steadier and more comforting sound of L.A. night life. Cars zipped past as blurs of thin light, making a low rumble as they went. They'd made it, easy as you fucking please. He wanted to thank her for getting them out --again-- but he was too... too...

"Good..." he murmured. Cameron nodded. She'd let him do what he wanted. She knew. It's one thing to want. It's another thing entirely to do, however.

John stared at the ceiling of the truck, its dull thrumming making him feel tired as hell. Every bone felt heavy... but he wanted to do so many things, there was so much left to do, he couldn't... he wanted...

He wanted to find Mike, wanted to yell at Mike, possibly screw Mike, wanted to yell at Cameron, (wait, what?) wanted to kiss Cameron, (hold on, WHAT, John Connor?!) wanted to screw Cameron (okay, better) wanted to go find that robot (but seriously, what-)

His head slumped forward like a child pouting and he fell asleep.

---------

Brent continued to tap his fingers down on the desk. He'd been doing that for around, oh... two hours now. He expected he'd carry on doing it for five hours more. Fingers hadn't even cramped up yet, he was so goddamned bored. It's one thing to work as a motel clerk. Meeting criminals on the off-hour, prostitutes in-between, and run-away brides at midnight. At least you see interesting faces when a gun isn't being shoved in your face.

It's another thing entirely to be a motel clerk and not have a single goddamn person come in all night. No one. Nada. The Luckee Star Motel was _right_ on the goddamn boulevard and _nobody _came in. Los Angeles. Millions of people, one of _the_ great cities in the world, and not a single punk kid coming in to meet his drug dealer in room 204, not a grandma asking for directions. Nothing. It was like he'd entered the goddamned twilight zone tonight, where, y'know, one room is in one dimension and the rest of the world is in the regular one?

Brent slowed his tapping, considering. That _sounded_ interesting... sort of. Maybe in an off-beat Hitchcockian sort of way. Brent was a writer. You know how every guy says they're a writer? Well, most of them are just saying that to impress their girlfriends or make small talk at cocktail parties. Brent was a _real_ writer... when he wasn't a motel clerk, that is. Well, he kind of did both at the same time, mostly. He did to paper what iron-smiths did to swords back in the days of old.

That was a good metaphor, he oughta remember that. He ripped a piece of paper out of his notebook and quickly scrawled it down in the chicken-scratch only he could really read. Then he looked around the small foyer, as if trying to see if anyone was watching. As ever, nothing. So yeah, he wrote a lot of short stories. Mostly involving motels. Hell, he could have written_ No Country for Old Men_ it involved so many goddamn motels. No one can quite measure the raw stock of human life until you put yourself down as their one representative, the only thing standing between _them_ and a mostly cold cable-TV riddled night in a musty motel room.

He had a lot of material! Usually. Today, not so much. He _chose_ to be on the night shift, for only on the night shift do you find the sort of humanity only Brent could put down to paper. It had nothing to do with the fact that no one else wanted to bother with the crack whores late at night. Or the smells. Brent was a go-getter, you see.

Tonight, though, proved dull and uninteresting. On top of his current writers block (he desperately needed inspiration!) no one was coming in, goddamnit. He was also saying _goddamn_ a lot in his head. His parents wouldn't like that. Little did they know that Brent was an agnostic, so it was okay in his book. He liked to sprinkle his dialogue with as much cursing as possible, actually. It made the stories seem more saucy and real. His characters were so good, they rubbed off on _him! _Genius!

Anyway, yeah. He felt pretty goddamn well bored. And lonely. And sick. He was sick, you see. Constantly sniffling. He had a feeling his writer's block had a lot to do with his head hurting so goddamned much.

Also, tired. Hell, nobody was coming in anyway, right? Maybe he could just sit down and rest for a little bit... -

Before he could do _anything,_ the double doors suddenly rattled. He looked up, frowning a bit as the Twilight Zone plot he'd been thinking up vanished with the entrance of an actual living human being. Damn!

His eyes widened as the human being in question marched in. She wasn't just _any_ human being, oh, no... Holy Christ. Aside from the several bleeding holes pock-marking her chest, the teenaged boy hanging over one shoulder, and the older, sweat-shirt wearing man hanging over the other, she had the prettiest face Brent had ever laid eyes upon. Er, that didn't reside in a magazine, of course. But this girl, no, she had... a natural sort of beauty, _authentic_, you see. If only it was unmarred by... uh...

He looked down at the wounds again. Those were bullet holes, weren't they. He looked up at the two unconscious people hanging over both her shoulders, carried by her like they were no lighter than duffel bags. He looked at _her_ emotionless glare as she stepped over to the desk and suddenly grinned sweetly.

Brent rubbed his eyes to see if he wasn't being tricked, or something. But who would... how... This was the most bizarre thing he'd ever seen, no doubt about it. He was so surprised he couldn't even start brainstorming.

"Uhhh... welcome?" he squeaked.

"I need a room," weird girl said tonelessly. For a dreadful second Brent thought she'd add his clothing to that demand, but she just stared at him instead.

Brent turned away, licking his lips and glancing at the room listings. 204 had the drug dealer... 101 had the British dude and his brown-haired lover... and so on and so on. Plenty of rooms open, though! Brent was just deciding which one would _suit_ the girl the best. He tried to make estimates based on personality, dramatic irony, etcetera, etcetera. It was pretty dumb when you considered the fact that the rooms were all perfectly identical, really, but hey.

"How's..." Maybe she'd like a view of the city. Yeah. Sure. Some place to toss her no-doubt elicit items, and... oh, right. He looked at her closely again. "Um, hold on, what's with-" he waved at the two unconscious people. The boy murmured something indistinct between snores. Brent couldn't see his face, but he had short, nearly crew-cut brown hair and a slightly large head beneath that. The other one, the older one, was merely quiet as the grave. He wore a hoodie over his head. They both looked, well... odd just hanging there like pieces of laundry.

Weird girl didn't even look at them. She didn't take her eyes off Brent, come to think of it. Her eyes seemed to be inset, almost like they belonged to a statue instead of a person."They need someplace to sleep," she said. "They've been up all night partying hard."

"Man, it's a weekday," Brent admonished, puffing his chest just a bit in the teenager's direction. "Kids like him should be at home studying."

The girl stared at him.

"Uh, well, anyway." He cocked a lopsided grin. "How's 201 sound?"

She considered that for a moment, as if she were tasting it. "Does the bathroom come with a lock?"

"Erm... yeah, every door comes with a lock. Yep."

The boy groaned again. Brent smelled beer off him, making him wrinkle his nose appropriately. Of course, he'd, y'know, had his share of glory days back in the _ol'_, but that didn't mean he had to _condone_ it now that he was a functioning, productive member of society. The other person continued to just hang there, not making a sound. It suddenly occurred to him that _both_ of them looked much heavier than the girl heaving them around.

"How are you carrying those two, miss?" Brent said, tilting his head.

"Vegetables," she replied.

"Ah, well, yeah. Makes sense. So you want it?"

"Yes, I want 201. Give me the key."

Brent retrieved it and dangled the key enticingly in front of her face, smiling. He was so thrilled at having a _bizarre_ customer that he didn't give a hoot _why_ she was bizarre. Well. Sort of.

The girl cocked her head and lifted her hand to grab it. Brent jerked the thing away, continuing to grin. She blinked deliberately, frowning.

"What's your name?" he asked.

She paused a beat, obviously not liking the question. She didn't like _anything_ that didn't go along with what she wanted, Brent gathered. "Allison," she said after a long moment.

"Allison. Pretty name." He made a wide gesture. "How'd you get shot?"

"These aren't bullet wounds."

"_Bullet wounds,_" Brent echoed. Sure were. The jacket sort of made it hard to tell; he had to go where most of the blood had clotted, but it seemed like there were a few in the right breast alone, two prominent holes in perfect symmetry over her abdomen (one penetrating the stomach, the other, probably piercing a lung) one that would no-doubt easily shatter the left clavicle, and mind you, that was just what Brent could _see._

He knew those should have at _least_ crippled her (painfully) because he watched a lot of medical shows. They were very educational when the actors weren't screwing in broom closets. Then they were just entertaining.

Allison's left shoulder suddenly twitched spasmodically, making the older man bounce. How could she take that much weight? "Those look like bullet wounds," Brent said confidently.

"They're not. They're stickers."

"Can I feel them?" Brent quirked his eyebrows hopefully. He must be dreaming.

"No. Are you going to call the police?"

Brent considered that for a moment. Usually he dialed 911 as quickly as he goddamned well could, but today... eh, she hadn't threatened him. Yet.

"Nah. If you tell me how you got those, I won't."

Allison shook her head. "No. Give me the key."

It was a demand. And Brent suddenly felt like he had to stop fucking around and just give it to her. But still... eh...

"Hey, what's the magic word, girlie?"

"Abracadabra," she said. "Give it to me."

Brent burst out laughing. "HAHAHAHA! Ohhh god, no... eheh. But that's funny, here." He flicked it to her and she caught it deftly. She turned to leave, walking a few steps. Brent shook his head slowly, the reality of the situation perhaps not having quite dawned on him yet that what he'd witnessed right now was _probably_ an impossibility.

Allison stopped. She turned her head to him and spoke in a lecturing tone. "Next time get to the point. No one likes a procrastinator."

And she left.

--------------

_Later..._

Derek pulled the wash cloth off. He stared at the disassembled Glock for a few seconds, the cloth laying off to the side, swiftly seeping into the wooden table with its alcohol. You could hear the oak cracking a little... just slightly splintering as, maybe for the first time in decades, something liquid touched its surface. This whole warehouse, dark as a tomb. No one but bums had breathed in here since 1979. That's what the foreclosure note said on the door to this place.

He picked up the cloth and dabbed it over the firing cylinder, staring fixedly ahead. He knew how to do this. He could do this blind-folded. It was a perfect, thoughtless little task.

After a few seconds, he dropped the cylinder noisily to the floor and lowered his head down on the table.

When he got right down to it, he didn't _like_ what he did. He honestly didn't. What soldier could like a thing like this?

Hell. He wasn't even a soldier anymore. He was... a _professional. _A difference. A soldier follows orders. He's a cog in the machine, working for the higher cause. He's as thoughtless as the task of cleaning a gun is.

But a _professional, _oh, no... Well, maybe specialist was a better word. Derek looked up again, wondering what that kid would have kept saying if he hadn't put a bullet in his brain. No, a soldier isn't a murderer. And so a soldier isn't Derek Reese. He stopped being a soldier when he entered Andy's hotel room. Maybe... maybe all this time he had just been tricking himself. Son of a bitch.

Cause honestly, eventually you gotta think "when have I become the bad guy?" When is that _supposed_ to dawn?

He was certainly no idealist. He was a simple man with simple wants. Right now, he wanted to save his brother. A brother not even really his brother yet. God, mom and dad had to be worrying.

A while ago, he thought to himself _I'm gonna kill all the bastards who did this. _Yeah. If a twenty-odd kid begging for his life consists of "the bastards" then he was doing an admirable job so far. That guy with the politician mask, _that_ was easy. It was _fun_ in fact. The guy tried to pull a goddamn pistol on him. And so did the kid wearing the pig mask, but then...

This wasn't about what he _liked_. It was about doing what he had to. If that meant he wasn't just a thoughtless cog, if that meant he was a murderer with wants and desires, then y'know, so be it. So be it. As far as he was concerned, Kyle's life was worth the lives of a thousand men like the people he'd killed today.

Derek bent over and picked up the firing cylinder. Quietly, he reassembled the Glock 17 and snapped the black silencer onto the barrel, giving the thing a solid turn until it stopped.

In a small storage room around ten yards from where he sat, the pounding resumed. So did the muffled yelling. Derek couldn't make any of it out.

He really had to moderate himself. Somehow. Standing up, he flipped the safety off and started walking towards the door. Part of him had wanted to leave the fucker here to starve to death, but he didn't want to take any risks. He was a murderer, but he liked to think he wasn't _cruel,_ you know?

Daffy called a man on his cellphone, under Derek's orders around two hours ago. When they were done with that, Daffy told Derek everything he wanted to know. Where Kyle was going to be tomorrow morning. What these people were... or at least, what Daffy _thought_ they were. Derek was beginning to have his suspicions. The word "diversion" was thrown around a lot. Derek? He was a diversion. He was dangerous to these people. They didn't want him to get involved in what they were doing, which obviously meant John and Cameron were in deep shit.

And Kyle? Well... he was still important to Derek. He made himself prioritize. John had Cameron. Kyle? He had no one. No one but _him. _Derek would play along with their shenanigans for now.

After Daffy told him all that, Derek left him for a few hours, and Derek contemplated himself and how much of a big damn bastard he was. Maybe these guys were just the final straw. All the shit recently, though... Sarah was fucking crazy, John chased tail, and Cameron...

Heh. Hell. He didn't _like_ her, he thought she was a ticking _bomb_ for chrissake, but she at least knew where she stood in all this. She was willing to do what had to be done. No distractions.

Well. So did he.

Derek opened the door to Daffy's "cell" and cleared his throat. "Get up."

The man, still goofily wearing his goddamn cartoon mask, stood up shakily, his entire body trembling with fear.

Derek blew upwards a bit into his hair and leveled his gaze on the guy. "Take it off."

"Wh-wh-w-"

Derek raised the pistol at the man's head, gaining the sort of response you'd expect. He did his best not to cringe at the sight. It was almost grossly pathetic. In-between sobs, Daffy quickly took off the mask and dumped it down next to him. Derek slowly took out a pencil flash-light and shined it into the man's eyes, frowning a bit. He saw a pale white guy with long brown hair and a tattoo on the right side of his neck. Small words scrawled _Get some!_ His eyes were wide and gray and staring. Maybe around twenty one? Maybe. Derek chewed on his lip a bit, considering.

The life he'd led, there was no such thing as youthful optimism. No hope for a better life. You were born, you lived, you probably died. Pity was something he had a real hard time understanding, mostly.

"You can make it from here?" he asked.

Daffy nodded eagerly, a smile dawning on his face. Escape? With no strings? Had to be a goddamn miracle.

Derek jerked his head to the side. _Go._

The gangster wannabe slash mercenary nodded again and took off past Derek, scrambling to maintain his footing as he dashed clumsily past some derelict machinery. Derek stared at the ground --the mask in particular-- for a few seconds in silence before abruptly turning and aiming the gun.

------------

He laid with someone still. The shape seemed more defined, though, whereas before it had been like staring at something on the bottom of a lake. A little blurry, but more certain.

He still felt guilty, too. A nasty, biting sort of guilt. The... _lingering_ sort, yes. It would stay with him, he was thinking. It hurt. So much he had to struggle to breathe. His stomach hurt. It bashed against his lungs, just roiled with pain.

The shape was... someone he knew. He had his arms around them, almost lovingly. One arm cresting a little under the person's neck, the other more intimate, more... sensual, on their body, back and forth, back and forth. It felt bizarrely good, just as before. It felt... gentler, now. Weirder. Not as horrifying as before, yet almost as bad.

The person whispered to him. The person said, _Run, John. _

_Run, John_ was as interchangeable to him as _Hi, John. _He heard it all the time. Yet now, he didn't want to. Despite the guilt. He wanted... to stay.

He found himself responding, like he had no control over his thoughts, his words, his mouth. _I don't want this to happen. _

_I'm sorry. _

_No..._

_No time..._

He looked up suddenly. He saw the darkness again, felt his legs jerk up and start to run. No time. He didn't want this to happen. Run, John.

Only run so far. Don't run too much. Run to your destination... don't pass it by.

He wanted to stop and go back. Back to the way things were.

But no. He had no choice.

-----------

Mike sat in the back of the van like he'd been told. Like a good boy. They said they'd come back and shoot him in the face if he made a noise. Mike had plenty of incentive to act like a good boy. The van rumbled again as it raced along. Mike bounced up slightly, raising his arm to support himself on the ceiling so he didn't fall down. Good boy.

He certainly wasn't gonna talk. No one around to listen, except his drivers. He wouldn't want to chat them up even if they hadn't threatened to kill him.

He stared at the navy blue siding. All sleek metal in here. Featureless. He felt like he was in a cell already. He wondered if his actual cell would be any more interesting that this.

Probably. He could amuse himself with a toilet if he wanted to.

Mostly he thought, right now. And he listened as much as he could. And he felt stuff. Weird stuff. He felt...

Bizarre. He'd never, ever felt something like this before. Betrayal. Abandonment. So long, Mike. Thanks for all your help, don't go dying now. They just, no, no worries, just up and left without him. He wasn't part of the team. He was off the team. His own team. John and Cam, they were a team. Sort of. Maybe he should have expected this. To take the fall when he had to. That made it no less painful, like he had a hole in his chest. He kept hoping. Kept thinking the van would stop suddenly and the doors would slide open and John and Cam would be there all "hey, you didn't really think we'd just forget about you, right?"

He knew that was dumb. Didn't make him stop hoping. Twelve years ago, he hoped for nothingness. He hoped for death. Salvation in death. He was sonderkommando. Burner of corpses. No resources, not enough metal, not enough chips to make machines run the incinerators. Humans burned humans, just as before. His four year old nostrils grew used to the smell. So did big ol' Kyle. They didn't talk for years at a time. They slept in ditches. They stood hours and hours, maybe days on end.

Maybe that was why he proved so resilient to bullets, eh? Maybe Century made him tough. He didn't know. He really didn't. He'd been miserable, dejectedly retarded and miserable. And one day, big ol' Connor mixed up some chemicals, tossed them into his incinerator as a T-600 passed by, _whammo. _Fwoosh. Mike had loved him already. One gun. One gun, from one robot. It was enough to bring the entire fucking camp to it's knees.

Resistance, they said. They left... before they could burn along with the camp.

He'd been here before. Humans couldn't be any worse off than machines as slave drivers.

He lacked hope, then. He thought he'd die there. Connor showed him better. So that was why Mike had faith in John right now, too. Maybe that was stupid, but...

He refused to think they'd just abandoned him.

"I'm having second thoughts."

Mike perked his head up.

"You're having second thoughts?"

"Yeah, I am."

Silence for a beat.

"Eh."

_"Eh?_ That's it? _Eh?_ Seven guys got killed by _one_... one, uh..."

"Washington calls it a cyborg. Some kinda government project. Like a sci fi movie."

"Y'know, _exactly,_ man, that's exactly it. We're way in over our fucking heads here. I-I mean, _cyborgs? _With human skin and robot underneath? _Spock?_"

"You're thinking Data."

"What the fuck ever, man. I mean, how the fuck do you make something that _real_? I caught a glimpse of her, she didn't look like a robot, y'know..."

"Don't tell me you expect them to do the robot, man."

"That's not the point! God, you're a retard."

"Shut up."

"Whatever..."

They lapsed into silence for a little bit, making Mike turn back to staring at the wall. God, if only they knew. Mike fancied he could more than easily take down a unit like Cameron if he had a plasma rifle handy. But if you had no experience, well...

"And what's with these fucking masks?"

"I like them. Gives us character."

"You're really stupid, y'know that?"

"One of these days I'm gonna take offense to a statement like that, _Ruth._"

"I have a real name, you asshole."

"Washington said not to do that on the job."

"What's our job?"

"We're government contractors hired to destroy rogue experimental cyborgs. Duh."

A giggle. "_Roll_ that last sentence around for a lil' bit. Go on, _try."_

"_Well,_ of course it sounds stupid, but we're paid a good enough rate for _predictably _dangerous work, my friend."

"She _killed_ seven armed men."

"She's a robot. It's understandable."

"Don't call it a she! She's not human! Make a left here?"

"Yeah, construction site's a mile after that. Straight on."

"Yep. Boy wonder still quiet back there?"

A sudden rattle on the back of the cabin. _"Hey, you still there? Heheh."_

Mike said nothing.

"Ehhh, I bet he is. He's not goin' anywhere."

They both snickered.

"Why's Washington want 'em?"

"Makes as much sense as keeping a five year old in captivity, eh?"

"Mehhh."

Once again, they stopped talking. Mike came to finding himself biting his nails. Fuck. Government? Were they fed a lie or was that the fricken' truth? Had to be a lie, no one knew about Skynet's agents except people who'd actually seen them and _knew_ what they were, for chrissake. It made no sense. And somehow this Washington guy knew _him._ How? Was he...

Mike strained to remember. He had a few theories on what was going on here, exactly, but he didn't want to dwell before he could just get the fuck out of here. Then he could think. Mike glanced at the sliding doors again; they were locked from the outside. Yeah, he knew how _that_ story would end if he tried some shit. He didn't see himself getting out any time soon. He should plan instead. Fishing around in his jeans for a little bit, he took stock of what he still owned. Cellphone was gone. A little bit of tissue paper and his inhaler; they left it when he told them he was dependent. All the ammo was gone; so was his gun. He knew _somewhere_ on him he had a paper clip that might get him out of a cell, but what use would it ultimately be?

Maybe John and Cam were following them right now. Keeping their distance. They wouldn't want to reveal themselves too soon.

"Hey, d'ya know when we can take off these stupid maks?"

"No clue. I don't think you wanna risk getting Washington pissed off, though."

"Should have never signed up for this. I had big contracts on Wall Street, corporate security jobs, I could have had any of them. But no, I went with _risk_ and _danger._ Dumb."

"You're really annoying, Ruth, y'know that?" Another rattle. "_Don't you think he's annoying?! _Ow, don't fuckin' hit me!"

"Look alive, dick head, we're here."

"Oh, shit."

Silence. Mike tried to steady his breath; it'd gone a little shallow. Okay. Here we go. Just remember. No expressions. You know how to do that, Mike. The van slowed down a little bit, glided for a few seconds, and then picked up speed again. It seemed to turn a lot, but not as bad as before. Mike tapped a little on his legs.

Without warning, everything stopped. He blinked and looked up and around just as the sliding doors cracked and opened, making him flinch a bit. Right! Poker face!

A merc stood there in the opening, aiming a pistol one-handedly inside. Mike glanced past him; for some reason it was really bright out. Why the hell...?

"Get out," the man barked.

Mike scampered out; the guy moved a little to let him leave the van, and Mike immediately took stock of his surroundings. Sand everywhere, and dirt. Plenty of dirt in big mounds. They were in an area surrounded by plastic-metal walls, and on those walls were floodlights that bathed the area with illumination. In the distance, to the north, a large, unfinished building squatted, still mostly composed of steel girders and bristling with construction equipment. In the large field Mike and his captors had stopped in, there were a bunch of pits around, lined to the sides with plastic coverings, and standing sentinel everywhere were bulldozers and giant cranes, all frozen in time, no one paying them any mind. They didn't even look rusty; just abandoned.

A little to the west, Mike could see plenty of buildings with lights sparkling from their windows. They were still in Los Angeles proper. Looking at the mercenaries, he also realized a lot of them had changed their clothes, looking like construction workers or security personnel now. The men in peach security uniforms had logos reading _Ricardo Construction Ltd _on their shoulders.

All of them still wore masks, though. Mostly cartoon characters, or caricatures of real people. It was a really odd and frankly creepy contrast from all the guns and dead-seriousness about them.

"Stop letting him fucking gawk and put a blindfold on em', Marvin."

"Shit, sorry."

Mike nodded to the guy and turned as he slipped a blindfold over his eyes.

"Where do we put em'?"

"Put him with Reese, I dunno."

"Alright, move." Someone gave Michael a light shove and he started walking.

"Tell Washington he can talk to em' whenever he wants, I'm gonna go take a goddamn nap."

---------

_Later..._

For the second time in his life, John Connor vowed he'd never touch a drop of alcohol again.

That was the first thought out of the gate as soon as he woke up. It was the first, and last thing that made sense, too, because after that all he could think of was _the human skull is not supposed to hurt this badly, _followed by a running trend of _aaaaaaaahhhhh._

He laid face-up in a scratchy, uncomfortable bed inside a small, mostly darkened room. It was light outside; sunlight streamed through the nearby window, but the dark was really stubborn about leaving, like it _liked_ this place and didn't want to go just yet. Everything felt muted and dull to him, like his senses had diminished in quality. If he moved a little, it felt like he was under water, all sluggish and shit. His vision was a tad blurry, and it actually hurt a _lot_ to keep his eyes even open. Mostly, he felt a lot of pain. Generous heaps of it, in fact.

Oh, well then. Back to sleep, then, Johnny. Settled back, closed his eyes, tried to sleep.

In the darkness he saw a bunch of red demons on horseback start to gallop towards him, and that was _a little_ too creepy for his tastes, so he roused again, a little annoyed and plenty jaded.

He needed a shower. Cold shower.

He needed a coffee. Lots of coffee.

He needed a fuck. Desperately.

Not necessarily in that order.

God, what happened last night. Uhhhhhhh. Huh.

Okay. He remembered drinking. A lot of drinking. Also, shooting. He _liked_ shooting. He also remembered having vague sexual thoughts about the gay kid he was friends with, but he packed that away in his brain and stamped on it a few times with a big smile. When that was done, he tried remembering again... okay. Cameron... god, this was confusing. Uhhh.

He looked around. It'd come to him eventually. He knew Mike was gone and Cameron was still around. That bothered him a little, because he didn't know if Mike was dead or simply out to get milk.

The little motel room had a TV set across from the bed, an overhanging halogen lamp that probably hadn't worked properly in years, some fairly generic looking paintings on the east wall, with a brown, desaturated dresser underneath. Next to those was the window. To the west was the door, and a desk. Directly ahead of him, to the left of the TV was the hallway, with two doors on either side. John could heard water running in the other room.

After a few seconds, he decided to hazard calling out to Cameron.

The water abruptly stopped. Rummaging in there... John laid his head back on the pillow painfully and stared at the ceiling.

So when was breakfast-

Oh GOD, Mike was- SHIT!

_Someone was after Cameron! _

And him! Maybe. Fuck!

John moaned.

A door opened in the hallway, and he looked up feverishly to watch Cameron leave the right-hand room. She wore a loose fitting white shirt and jeans beneath that, as if she'd been sleeping herself. She turned into the bedroom and said, "Good morning."

"We, uh- Cam... _shit..._" Flopped back down again. He could barely move. Felt _fucking useless. _Oh, god, he remembered... he got drunk and a bunch of assholes raided the club. Cameron got him the hell out of there, but _he_ wasn't the one in danger. It was her. They wanted her. For some reason. They fucking left Michael. Abandoned him was more like it, _fuck._

Why did he have to get drunk... what was the point, he wasn't a fraternity asshole, he was trying to do a fucking mission... _God,_ he was terrible at this. He should really just admit it to himself. Terrible at it. He couldn't lead a squad of men out of a paper bag.

He just wanted to _paint his goddamned room_ yesterday, why couldn't it remain that simple?

Cameron walked on in and made herself room on the bed. John absently scooted his legs to the side. He felt goddamn miserable. Tried closing his eyes: the red demons were much closer. Opened them silently, looking at her.

"I screwed up, didn't I?" he said quietly.

She titled her head a bit. Did she not get it? How could she not get it after all this time? After he kicked her off a bus and ran away from her? After he embraced her after a long shower? After everything? How could she not understand? He wanted acknowledgement, not fucking confusion.

"Again," he added. "You realize that, right? I mean... I think the only reason we've gotten this far is just luck. Or you... Just you." His voice shuddered. "If it were you doing this... what I'm doing, we'd be better." He nodded. "We'd be doing better." He looked at her as though accusingly, as though he _wanted_ things that way now. "You get that, right? You get how... _little_ a difference I make?"

"You're whining," Cameron said simply.

John stared at her. "It's the truth. Every command I've given, everything I've done so far, it's been a royal fucking screw-up. Even when I _want_ this... Cam... I mean, I just can't win, y'know?"

"Or you're sabotaging yourself." She turned from him for a second and looked at the bathroom, down the hall. Then back.

John barely noticed. He scoffed. "Why would I do that...?"

"Because," Cameron said. "You want John Connor to fall into your lap. You always ask me what future John would do. I think future John wants you to stop asking and stop expecting yourself to win merely because you want to. I think he'd want you to work for it."

Fuck _her._ Goddamnit. He shook his head. "Y'know... why don't people ever just _admit_ when I'm being inept? Why do you, why does everyone have to make excuses on my fucking behalf?"

She glared now. John glared back evenly, but the expression still sort of surprised him. "I'm your bodyguard, John." She stood up slowly. "Not your psychologist."

"You mad, Cam? Getting annoyed?" He chuckled nastily. "I wonder how it feels for you. To feel annoyance, to feel... huh, anything, y'know?" He leaned over to her, to her back. "It doesn't feel so fucking great, does it?!"

"Do you need to pee?" she asked.

"D- wait, what?"

She repeated herself.

John blinked slowly. "Uh..." Why the fuck couldn't she stay on subject? "Cameron..."

She pointed to the bathroom. "It's right there, John."

"What the _fuck_ is wrong with you?"

"We're both damaged in some ways." She lowered her arm, looked at him. "We break sometimes. In the head."

"You're making no sense." He wanted to say she was scaring the piss out of him, too, but he wouldn't. Couldn't.

Worst part? She was right. He really, desperately needed to use the bathroom. Had to ever since last night.

"You should go to the bathroom."

They stared at one another for a little while. She had this... such an innocent, blank look on her face, almost pleading. _Please use_ the bathroom. Crazy as hell. And he looked... he felt like a grump now. She was fucking unbearable sometimes.

She raised her eyebrows a little. That's it.

John rolled himself off and stood up, holding onto his head as though he had to support it or else it'd fall off. That's how it felt, at least. He didn't look at her as he went past and into the hallway, his bare feet sinking into the scruffy carpeting with each step. As he turned into the bathroom, he just sort of stared at the scene before him for a few, blank minutes before turning around again, his face expressionless, almost like hers. When he was back on the bed, he let out a long, shuddering sigh and glanced at her.

She hadn't changed her expression an iota. Exactly the same. What sort of shit ran through her mind? Did she have some sort of advanced insanity that would literally fry someone's brain if they tried to comprehend it?

Instead of addressing what he'd seen, what she did, he just blurted this out; "What are you trying to prove?"

She felt much, much more frightening as her face suddenly became animated and she leaned at him. "We're both broken, John."

John gasped out a little as he nodded. "Y-yeah, no kidding _you_ are."

"You kept trying to prove you weren't ready for this. You're just changing your methods now to make everyone believe you're incompetent. I think you're looking for distractions. I think you're refusing to accept your reality."

He gulped and looked away now.

"What does that mean?" he mumbled.

"It means you're broken." She sat down again, at his feet. "Just like me."

"I don't torture people and kill them."

"The crimes you commit will be much worse if you continue to do this."

"I'm doing nothing wrong."

She narrowed her eyes. John sighed. "Never mind." No, fuck that. "What's your point?"

"I'm with you. I don't think you're inept. I think you're holding back, because you're broken sometimes. Like me."

He rolled onto his stomach and stared at the cotton fabric pillow for a little bit. And she never moved.

When he looked back, he said, "I can't be fixed. I don't have spare parts. I don't wanna be fixed."

"Yet," she said. She stood up, still looking down on him. "You should think about it-"

"Hold me."

"Alright."

She sat down again and barely had time to move before he scrambled up and embraced her, shuddering and maybe also crying a bit, he didn't really know. It's the same old story he had difficulty accepting. He didn't even know if he _had_ accepted it right now. There's still a girl named Riley. There's still the chance that everything will work out and he doesn't have to suffer. There's still Cameron to talk to, there _will_ be Mike to... well, whatever he felt like doing. He'd be there, anyway. He was between a rock and a hard place, and he really, honestly didn't know what to do.

That was somehow worse than being certain of "I want to run away." At least then he knew.

He didn't know how the mind of John Connor worked yet. That sucked as well. So he held her, held her tight. He beat on her back, because he needed to hit something and she wouldn't mind.

And she just sat there, like a stone, with an arm around him, not saying a word or doing much in particular. Because she was broken.

And John sat there and worried. Because he was broken, too.

Maybe with her, though, he could fix things. Maybe. It's a start, at least.

After a little while, he moved back and looked at her. "Can you c-clean up in there?"

"Yes."

"Did he tell you anything?"

"Yes. I know where we're going."

He sighed in relief. Thank god...

"We have to stop somewhere first, though."

A/N: To Ionia J. in particular and anyone who doesn't have an account: my email address is .

To Ionia J: Do send me a line, I think you brought up some valid points that I'd like to discuss more in-depth.


	13. Executive Command

**No Trespassing**

Chapter Thirteen: Executive Command

"And here we are..."

"Here" was dark, dusty old tunnel underneath the construction site. Mike could hear water dripping somewhere; or running through pipes, he really wasn't sure. "Here" was definitely _not_ where he wanted to be, though. Too far underground, it seemed like. Had to take an elevator, not that he could actually _see_ anything through this goddamn blindfold.

"Great," Mike replied to his captor, "So you wanna take this off or-"

The man shoved him past some sort of steel threshold, banging his feet hard against it and sending him head first into the dirt. A slight sense of vertigo for a few, terrified seconds, then his skull smashed against something heavy and he couldn't help screaming bloody murder as his vision, already dark and blinded, suddenly went bright red. He wormed around slowly after a few seconds, his head hurting like someone had split it open with a pick axe. Tried to find some swear words to toss back at the douche bag who'd shoved him, but he couldn't think of any. He couldn't even remember his name.

"H-he-ey..." he groaned, voice shattered and weak. "Hey-"

A door he hadn't seen creaked shut, the noise echoing throughout the chamber, making him wince ever more with pain. And then no more sound, aside from a light shuffling nearby. His head pounded mercilessly, like someone kept beating on it as though it were a drum. Hurt real bad. Everything went dark, then suddenly light, then dark all over again. Holy crap...

Something... something was in here, he knew that. Couldn't think of what, though. Thugs mentioned something up topside, something down here...

Blood poured down the side of his head. It felt weirdly pleasant, almost ticklish. Not hurting at all, just sticky and odd. He felt really, really dizzy and lightheaded; concussion, maybe? Weird how the simplest actions make your life that much more difficult and hellish. The worst thing about this was that he couldn't fucking see. Couldn't do anything. Blind, hurting and helpless.

Shuffling got closer, moving, pushing through... sand, or something. Dirt. Mike barely paid attention. He wanted desperately to fall unconscious, but-

-------

John rattled the back of his hand on the door and stood back.

_"Son of a..."_ a man's voice muttered inside.

"Go get it, Winston."

"Hold on, hold on..."

He looked back at the other end of the courtyard, towards his room, on the second floor; he was on the first floor right now.

He was just in time to watch Cameron enter with yet another bucket of water. He shook his head slowly. She was right. They were both pretty damned crazy: although the degree to which he was crazy was debatable, whereas Cameron... well... Y'know, he felt sick just thinking about that, so he didn't.

The morning sun shone down through the middle of the yard, lingering brightly over the polished roof of motel: it was arranged in a hollow square, with the rooms occupying the sides of the square and the middle containing a courtyard you could walk around in to get to other rooms and such. It was weird. There were a bunch of trees and plants and stuff, you could hear birds chirping. And there was an alright sized pool, too, although there were a bunch of leaves floating in it. All natural. Almost. And yet, if you looked just up over the roof, you'd see the place was surrounded with tall buildings, with all the billboards and tapestries of modern civilization. And the sounds of traffic outside were unavoidable. John didn't really like the contrast. Felt illegitimate. Mom would appreciate it, though. So would Derek. They liked _anything_ nature-y.

He glanced down at his stuff. A towel and some shampoo from the bathroom, provided by Cameron. The towel had a small, barely perceptible splotch of blood on it, and John kept it pointed towards his side. He sniffed. At least his headache was gone.

Footsteps came forward past the door, and he could see a little movement behind the peephole. John gave a bright, fake smile and cleared his throat as the door opened, revealing a disheveled looking fellow inside. He looked to be in his later thirties, yet seemed a lot older in his features than his actual age. A bunch of wrinkles creased his forehead, he had this thin, narrow, Anglo-Saxon face with out-stretched ears, like monkey ears, or something. Brown eyes and brown, messy hair. He didn't look too happy.

"Erm, hullo," he said slowly, scratching his unshaven chin. "Can I help you?" Sounded British, too. There existed a perpetual nervousness beneath his voice, which wavered unevenly as he spoke, as though he were unused to it.

John chuckled. "Uh, hey. Sorry about this, but our water isn't, uh, _working_ back in our room, and I was wonderin' if..." He looked past "Winston" and licked his lips. "Was wondering if you'd let me use your shower?"

Winston stared for a few seconds, as though he had difficulty forming the meaning around John's words. More likely he thought it was a ridiculous request: and hey, it was, so why blame him?

"What's he want, Winston?" the woman yelled again. Like her husband/lover/brother/whatever, she sounded British, too. Unlike Winston she seemed effortlessly confident, even a bit prudish in her way of speaking.

"A minute, Julia," Winston said, turning his head just so. Then back at John, a little grudgingly. "Eh, so... you want to use the _shower, _is'at right?"

"Yeah," John said. "Is it too much trouble?"

"Oh, uh... Well, I suppose not... How long would you be?"

"Just five minutes." Cameron wanted him to forget about it, but he needed something stupid and regular to concern himself with for a few minutes. Gather his thoughts, y'know.

Winston chewed on his lower lip for a little, looking back into the room every few seconds. Eventually he seemed to sag a little and opened the door wide enough for John to enter. "Yeah, I suppose you could, come in, then."

"Thanks, man."

"Hmm."

"Oy, who's that?" the woman said as John stepped inside. He blinked rapidly as his eyes adjusted to the darkness: not that there was much point, the room looked almost exactly like his own. Only difference was that it smelled of cheap cologne and other stuff. Perfume, maybe.

"Just a boy who's going to use the loo for a little while, it's fine." The man wore bluish pajamas and looked incredibly discomforted.

"What's wrong with 'is?"

"Broken, apparently." He looked at John. "'ow'd it get broken?" He pointed suddenly. "Loo, uh, the bathroom's right there."

"It just broke down," John said. "I'd fix it myself, but the clerk told me not to."

"Ah, a repairman, eh? You repair stuff often, then?"

"When I can. Mostly computers."

"One of 'em technicians, eh?" Julia crowed. John really thought she was annoying.

"I guess."

"Ahh, 'ow about that." Winston nodded in faux appreciation. "Well, we'll just stay out of your way, then. You'll find everythin' you'll need in there, just don't take too long, alright?"

"I've got a towel and stuff."

"Oh, oh, of course. Never mind me then."

"Come on back, Winston."

"Minute, dear, just seein' him off. So, uh-"

John turned and quickly went through the door Winston specified, shutting it behind him. He didn't go so far as to lay back against the door in relief at having been rid of those two annoying idiots, but he came pretty close. Jesus Christ...

He took a cursory look around the bathroom. A small, boxed in sort of place with a stand-in shower, a small sink next to that, and a toilet across from both. Towel rack, and a small end table with a _Reader's Digest_ sitting on top of it. The room itself was dimly lit, cold, and John wouldn't have been surprised if some of these things had graffiti all over their walls. This particular specimen was more well-kept, though. Having left his jacket back in the other motel room, he quickly peeled off his shirt and moved down to his belt-

"You sure you don't need anythin' else?" Winston asked through the door.

John glared. "No. I'm okay. I'll be outta here in a sex- Uh, sec. Thanks."

"Huh." He scuttled away after that. Annoying bastard.

He couldn't help grinning, though. Just dealing with people, stupid, regular people after all that had happened... refreshing. Not having to worry about killing, shooting, any of that. Just your standard situations, with their standard hang-ups. It felt nice.

He kept his jeans on for a moment and walked over to the shower, sliding the curtain to the side. The little walk-in shower was even shittier than the thing at his last house, but what the fuck, right? It had some obviously brought-in shampoo and conditioners with names he couldn't quite recognize. Outside, he could hear Winston and Julia talking in low, murmuring tones. He got the distinct feeling he'd interrupted them during... well, something _no one_ would really wanna be interrupted during. He liked to think that that was what made him flub with his words just a second ago.

And he also wished Cameron came in to shower with him. So yeah, totally innocent screw up, that. Heh.

He sighed. Today wasn't exactly gonna be all apples and carrots, either (did he _really_ just think that?) Cameron wanted to go see this Joey Cook guy before rescuing Mike. She obviously thought getting rid of this rogue Terminator was more important than their fucking friend, but he wasn't gonna argue about it. For now. As long as she knew he didn't like it, she'd eventually go along with what he said. He knew that pretty damn well by now.

Man, he didn't even know how they were gonna go about getting Mike out of there. According to the late henchman Cameron had... talked to... their base of operations was in this construction site. Used to belong to something called the Kaliba Group, according to the guy. Packed to the brim with mercenaries, though. He also said they were government sanctioned commandos hunting down rogue cyborgs. Oh, sorry, _experimental_ cyborgs. Total fucking bullshit: and yet, according to Cameron, he believed it. Someone, maybe Skynet, was after them.

Or humans who didn't appreciate what _he_ was doing up in the future. That was a scary thought, and he really wanted to just focus on getting clean right now, none of that deep crap.

John swiped a little at his hair, frowning. It was getting longer all over again: wouldn't be a while before the bangs showed up, too. He'd have to cut it up soon. Or groom it.

Yeah. Shower. Okay.

------------

_"Went to your show and all your fans gettin' haaard!"_

Brent snored. He'd been snoring for a while now, half past the time he was supposed to go home, in fact.

_"They get so horny when you play your guitar!"_

He'd done this at least twice this week, three times last week, and, well, you get the idea. Hell, Luckee Star was practically his home nowadays. He knew his _mother_ despised him and wanted him out of the house --desperately, so she was thrilled. Well, so was he. At least he could write in peace here --and with inspiration!-- without her constant yammering.

_"Make me, baby, make me, pick me out of that crowd!"_

So yeah, he slept here sometimes. Yes, while on the job. He locked the doors, so it was fine. And he went to sleep with headphones, and his iTunes on shuffle. For some reason loud music helped him get to sleep. Or just made him forget that he hadn't published anything, not even in a magazine, since his school newspaper.

_"She saved me li-i-ife, she saved my love, cause she's _good."

Someone shoved him lightly on the shoulder, rousing him from the half-sleep he'd fallen into since three AM. Brent snorted and glanced up, blinking rapidly and not bothering to take the headphones off for a moment.

_"She saved my so-o-ul, she saved my song!"_

A very tall, very stoney faced man stared down at him. He was effortlessly handsome, with slick brown hair ending in a widows peak, marble blue eyes beneath that, a nose barely going past his chin, high cheek bones, chiseled features and... well, at the same time he scared the living shit out of Brent. For some reason. He was easily six feet -- at least; and although he looked somewhat modest in his build you could tell there was an underlying strength behind the skin that would have no problem punishing you if you ever crossed it.

Smiling seemed a foreign concept to him: so was frowning, for that matter. He just seemed utterly emotionless about what he saw, what he felt, like nothing could faze him or impress him.

Although he looked like the corporate heavy type, he didn't wear anything fancy. Just an extra large, black sweatshirt and plain jeans. He didn't move an inch as he said something Brent couldn't hear.

_"Ain't we famous, baby, ain't we famous? We are!"_

Brent blinked. The man repeated himself. Oh, shit, headphones, right.

_"Ain't we famous, baby-"_ Brent tore the things off while they were still going and folded his hands together over the counter, grinning up at the imposing fellow.

"Hello, welcome to the Luckee Star Motel. We've got plenty of rooms available..." He trailed off, barely thinking of what he was saying. Man... what inspiration! This guy looked like a fucking badass, and yet there was an unmistakable dread lying underneath that would always prevent him from being a hero. The music continued to pound up from the freshly discarded headphones. He dutifully ignored it.

"I'm looking for a girl," the man said after Brent finished. He had a predictably gruff voice that was devoid of inflection.

Brent smirked. Ahh... so he wanted to blow off some steam, eh? Brent thought up a million excuses he could use to make this guy stay a little longer, if only so that muse would finish working itself out, but... hell, he had nothing. "Eh, this isn't that kind of place, my man."

The guy reached into his sweatshirt pouch and produced a picture. He held it up so Brent could see it, nice and easy. The picture showed a middle aged woman with a hard expression, a timid looking teenaged kid behind her, and in front of them was the brunette girl he'd seen last night: she held a revolver in this photo, pointing it at someone. Holy shit.

"Have you seen her?"

Brent gulped. Christ. He knew that girl was trouble, he just didn't know how bad... oh god. This guy was a hitman, wasn't he? Or a bounty hunter. Undercover cop, maybe. Or a spurned lover out for revenge- _STOP._ Okay. Relax, Brent.

Hell.

When a few seconds had passed, the man repeated himself.

"Uh-" Brent began, hyperventilating. Just a bit. Had to get the fuck out of here. And how the fuck did this guy get past the locked door, he _just_ remembered that shit...

"I think she's here," the man stated flatly. Like he already knew.

"Well..."

"I want to take a look around."

Brent held up his hands, as though pleading. "Uh, hey, listen. I'm gonna go into the back room for a second, I sorta forgot something in there-" He abruptly got up and turned.

And got no further than two feet before the man planting a hand on the back of his shoulder, halting him. The hand seemed almost eagerly ready to break whatever bones it could find there. A moment of deadly silence passed between them.

"Room 201," Brent whimpered.

"Get to the point next time," the man said. Brent didn't even turn around to watch him leave.

------------

After drying off, John sat on the edge of the shower stall, staring at the wall. The towel sat at his feet, near his clothes. He didn't feel like dressing yet.

He'd been sitting there, listening to everything for a couple of minutes. The two Brits hadn't made a single noise yet. Maybe they were sleeping. Or just very quiet. Man, he hated them. At least _they_ were together, right? Everyone who liked him was either crazy, a robot, or gay. Just couldn't win there, nope.

Cameron was right. He couldn't avoid thinking about that. She was right, because he took the people who actually _did_ like him and... and he made them want to hate him. Anything to sabotage all this, make mom handle it, Derek handle it. Anything to get them to get them off his back. The first thing John handled on his own, a bunch of people died. The second time, a bunch of people died _again. _

But what if it was all just a moment of weakness? Well fuck, man, those were some pretty deadly weaknesses. He felt... _scared_ now to do anything serious, all those old fears kept manifesting in him, compelling him to run away. That he wasn't suited to this, that he'd do much, much better overall as a regular boy with regular friends and regular parents.

He couldn't run away again. So instead -- yeah. Sabotaged. Took an excuse, got himself drunk. Or insisted on questioning the headcase security guard alone. And on the off chance he got the choice to kill himself, well... it was intriguing to think about, wasn't it? Pencils, guns, wide, easily breakable windows. How far is the fall? Pretty damn high, we'll settle on that. He'd have a ton of time to think about it all as he fell.

And he was already falling. But unlike in reality, he could choose at any time to stop.

More than everything, he... really, really didn't want to keep going through with this. Fucking torture. He always had to honestly wonder _why him? _They couldn't have chosen someone else?

Man, fuck it. He had to get his shit straight, that was all. Yeah. This was your average teenage problem. A phase. Heh. Funny as hell.

John sighed and looked around, half wanting to stay here. The Brits would want him gone soon, so he thought he'd really better get going. His shit wasn't gonna sort itself if he just sat here, moping.

As he got up and started dressing, he thought that he'd really, seriously made an art form of that. He shot good, he ran great, he talked fast, but only moping had become a higher form of art for him. Brooding, whining, moping, crying, you name it. It was what he did best, really. Somehow, he didn't even hate himself for that thought. He thought he was entitled to it. John Connor, the ruler of the world and the savior of mankind. Uh. Culture shock, anyone? Just a little?

Hell. Stop this shit, John. Really. Stop, and ah... _that_ was another thing he got too good at. Navel gazing and the like. He could spend hours at a time contemplating his situation, the solutions, how much it sucked, how _hurt_ he felt by all of it, and really, he'd never be able to find a solution. Nothing that satisfied him, nothing that made any sense. The only person who'd ever made sense to him was dead now. She called John on all this shit and found him wanting, and then she got shot in the head by Cameron. Weird how that happens.

Maybe the solution was just to stop feeling altogether. Stop having emotion, stop crying. Maybe he should become more like one of the things he so desperately needed to destroy. Maybe only then he'd be that Guy. That General.

What he really wanted? Despite the fact that she was (maybe) a lying bitch, he wanted to hang out with Riley. Do stupid things, at stupid places. Be stupid. He felt... normal around her, and he liked that feeling more than anything else. Maybe when the bullets flew and the Terminator's eyes grew red he felt _alive_, still fighting, still caught up in that epic struggle, but only when doing mundane things was he actually happy.

He finished dressing and gave a light sniff to his clothes. Still musty, but what the hell. He felt better, if not any wiser. That'd have to do for now.

---------

"Thanks for everything," John said as Winston shepherded him out.

"What? Oh, right, of course. Any time." He was wearing even less than before, but still managed to be decent. Somehow.

Julia laughed hysterically at something back inside, and as John stepped out into the open air, he realized he hadn't seen her even once. Probably just as well. Winston continued speaking; "Very kind boy you are, I have to say."

John grinned, blushing a little bit. "Oh, uh, thanks."

"You're welcome. Come back any time."

"Not too often!" Julia yelled.

Winston rolled his eyes, bid John farewell a second time, and shut the door. Again, that quick scampering sound as he retreated once more to Julia. John had to smirk at that. He scratched his chin and looked up at 201, his room. No sign of Cameron. He glanced briefly around the courtyard and saw a pretty well-built dude strolling around the place, keeping to the grassy parts, staring up at the sky. Not a bad idea. Maybe he'd do a little walking himself.

----------

Twelve suitcases is typically what a large family brings on vacation to hold their belongings. Two important words there, Cameron thought. Family. Belongings. She poured a final dosage of bleached water onto the bathroom floor before resuming mopping in circular motions. Outside, on the queen sized bed, lay twelve tightly packed suitcases. She wanted to use four, but John insisted on "stretching it out," to seem less suspicious. The suitcases, among severed human body parts, were packed with nonsensical items taken from various motel rooms. Clocks. Articles of clothing. Bibles.

The suitcases were not for a family. The packages within would make very poor luggage for a family seeking sabbatical in a place of relaxation and enjoyment. They belonged to herself and John, and although they persisted in lying about the fact, they were not, in fact, related.

Nor did the items belong to them. They belonged to Herbert, mostly. They belonged to him in the sense that they _were_ him.

John wanted to drop the luggage into an incinerator, but there were no such devices in close proximity, so Cameron proposed they drop the luggage as they drove. Cameron also suggested they merely leave the luggage. As a surprise.

John decided on the former course of action. He didn't help, though. He wanted very badly to shower and "collect himself." Cameron agreed that this was a good idea. He was broken. Maybe he could try and fix himself while in the shower. In the meantime, Cameron cleaned up after Herbert.

Before entering the luggage, Herbert was very forthcoming. He told her all about many interesting things. Herbert said he worked with a group informally referred to as the Masks, formally as Security and Containment Unit C, classified military branch. Mostly freelance military or mercenary retainers with a military liaison. The only purpose Herbert was aware of was that of securing and containing government mistakes and failures in cyborg research and military development. He said there was extensive documentation.

An extensive lie, perhaps. The United States had no, to Tech-Com's and Cameron's own recalling, knowledge of Skynet or the military machine operating under Skynet's orders. That would only come with the advent of Skynet, not before.

No, someone, perhaps a rogue faction from some thread of time Cameron had no knowledge of, had come back in time to hunt down Terminators. They certainly weren't under John's orders: this wasn't like him, to commit resources to an ultimately fruitless endeavor. It seemed a reactionary response to the unveiling of TDE technology. Cameron warned him that distributing blueprints would result in catastrophe, but he wanted installations in every major base. He said he'd control the resistance from there, make sure they didn't run away with it.

Clearly, in this thread of time, he had no such control. That meant more mistakes were being made. That meant John was still broken, and that meant Cameron had to help fix him. Before his own people put an end to him. Her mission was malleable to the extreme: or perhaps it had merely metamorphosed under her own consent. She had been very rigid, perhaps even less sophisticated before explosion. She could think now. Feel now. Examine a situation and make a long-term investment in said situation.

She had to keep John on track. Keep him pure. Fix him.

She was still attempting to figure out just how she was supposed to do that. The objective was, as she'd observed, malleable. Yet constrictive at the same time. Protect him bodily, or utterly to the extreme? Very open to interpretation, now that _she_ was broken.

Currently, John wanted very much to rescue their friend. Cameron had a more far-flung goal in mind, one that would hopefully encompass John's wishes. If they didn't, then her gamble would have failed. She'd risk the heart break on his end. In his own words, shit happens. She was not a perfect machine. But she _was_ incredibly intelligent. Hopefully this would work. It depended on Joey Cook.

She propped the mop against the tiled wall and scanned the bathroom. There was little chance someone would notice what had transpired here. A casual observation would yield nothing. John's request was complete.

Cameron walked back into the main room. Twelve neatly stacked suitcases sat on the bed. A vaguely foul smell emanated from them. More Febreeze, then. She grabbed the suitcase on the far right and middle row, and opened it, taking a recount of its contents: Black socks, pink socks, a stolen watch, folded underpants splotched with blood on the hem, and Herbert's severed head. His glassy eyes stared fruitlessly up at her.

Cameron went back to the bathroom and took a spray bottle of air freshener. Returning, she sprayed the stuff under the pants, and around the head in particular, killing the decayed odor.

On her return trip she caught a glance of herself in a nearby mirror. Her hair could use some straightening. John took her more seriously when she looked more serious. Also, she possibly smelled. For some reason a reminder for constant bathing had yet to be programmed effectively into infiltrator units. While no such thing was even needed in a post Judgment Day environment, it was perhaps more necessary since the discovery of time displacement.

She grabbed a brush from the nearby end table and began to groom her hair. She straightened knots, removed curls. She pressed the hair to one hand and brushed through it, giving it a wavy texture which was pleasing both visually and tactilely. She continued to brush until she heard the gunshot.

Cameron carefully replaced the brush, removed the Beretta from the drawer, and left the room, leaving Herbert to stare at the ceiling fan in silence.

---------------

Despite wearing the headphones, Brent still heard the gun go off. He tossed the things away and stared blankly at the double doors leading outside. Goddamnit, _no! _

Okay. Call 911. But the cops are way too slow! You know they never get here in time, Brent! Think! _Thiiinnnk._

Oh, brilliant! He grabbed the nearby broom, briefly practiced motions akin to clocking someone over the head with the hard end, and left through the back door. Not on his watch! Not again!

---------------

The Terminator kept the gun pressed firmly against John's temple as Cameron left 201 upstairs. The barrel felt insanely hot against his bare skin, burning him slightly as he gritted his teeth. Not again. Also warm was the headlock the cyborg had him in. His flesh felt really, humanly warm.

The triple eight stared up at Cameron, and Cameron stared down at them. The metal was very clear that John shouldn't speak during this. They were standing near the pool, and the birds kept chirping nearby unabated, maybe used to loud noises by now. Since they lived in the city.

John stayed perfectly still. His left leg got twisted hard when he tried to escape this guy initially. He realized what it was at the _last_ second before the T moved on him, and by then, too late. Yeah. He was stupid. He got that feeling by now. The guy's muscular arm kept him barely breathing, muffling him up.

Cameron pointed the pistol down at them. At this range, it looked like she could be aiming at either of them. And John felt absolutely no terror. No fear.

And that was what troubled him more than anything else. Because really, if this guy was after _him,_ then he'd be dead by now, no questions asked. Ergo: it wasn't here to kill him. It was here for something very different.

"Power down," the metal spoke loudly, clearly, and completely without emotion. Its angular face barely regarded John aside from being the thing's trump card in this "conversation."

"Let him go and I will," Cameron said with equal calm. She moved the pistol firmly at the Terminator's head.

"Cam, don't-!" John tried to yell, eyes widening. No, she's bluffing. Totally.

The Terminator tightened the headlock harshly and lowered its head slightly to John's. "First warning." The machine's cold voice breathed down like a dispassionate tendril on his neck. He shuddered. The T looked back up at Cameron. "I will let him go after you power down."

The gun didn't move. Didn't even waver. It felt it had become a natural part of John's features, indistinguishable from a nose, a mouth, anything. He shuddered for a breath and tried to keep himself calm. What the fuck was happening? Just felt so confused, not even angry or mad, just confused, really fucking confused.

Cameron, like the gun, stayed motionless. She wouldn't be budging.

The Terminator cocked its head slightly. "If you do not power down, I will kill him. Power down."

"On who's authority?" Cameron said.

"Executive command 9-76 Tech-Com, General John Connor. Rogue units are to be hunted down and terminated with prejudice."

"I'm not familiar with that one," Cameron said musingly. John half wanted to hit her, but he was still processing the "executive command" part of all that. What...

"I _am_ John Connor," John tried to keep his voice steady. Maybe he did, maybe he didn't: for some reason his voice just wouldn't register, like he was speaking into a vacuum.

The T lowered its head yet again. "Second warning." It actually tapped one of its feet for a brief moment. "You have ten seconds now. Power down."

John stared up at her, pleading, imploring something in that brilliant machine mind to just _give_ and figure it out. He couldn't move for shit. All on her.

As the seconds ticked by --Mississippi seconds or fast seconds?-- the T continued to talk in that calm voice. Its fake voice sounded gruff, yet... utterly unimposing, like a bureaucrat. Just calm, perfunctory, professional. For some reason that freaked him the fuck out. Actually, in _fact_, everything about this was freaking him out. He had no idea what was going on. Rogue units? Executive commands from the future?!

"If you won't, I can assist."

It further pressed the gun against John's head, jabbing sharply and sending a fresh wave of headache all over his skull. Right in the fucking temple. John groaned softly against the machines arm, unable to see in anything but red for a brief, painful split second.

"Five seconds," the triple eight said simply.

"Alright," said Cameron. She tossed the pistol over the railing, into the pool. It hit with a solid _plop._

John blinked, looking up in horror. "Cameron, no!" Oh, god, no. Not like this.

"Don't be stupid, John," she said, not even looking at him now.

She couldn't do this. She was lying, somehow. Can't self-terminate, right? Right. Or maybe that was part of her specs, she could manually go into shutdown for maintenance, or whatever. But she wouldn't-

John blurted, "Hold on, this isn't what you think-"

The Terminator pulled John's face suddenly to its own, examining him. He felt like a bug on a plate. Bugs generally don't spit in their captor's faces, though. Not that the Terminator cared. As saliva dripped from its fake eyes, it suddenly appeared contemplative. "John Connor?"

John abruptly shook his head. Instinct. Pure instinct, there.

"You're lying," it intoned. All the same, the metal didn't appear to give a shit. It jerked its head back up at Cameron, nodding. "Do it now."

She crumpled to the floor and out of sight without a word. John blinked in dull surprise. He really, honestly didn't think she'd do it. What... oh... oh, god, no, no, no, no-

He stared in shock for a few seconds as the Terminator shoved him to the ground and started to walk. Like Cameron before him, John fell soundlessly, like he himself had been lobotomized, shut down, as it were.

He shut his eyes. Heard footsteps crunching next to him.

Oh, god, no. She couldn't really be doing this.

Everything flew by for him, like a documentary on fast forward about one Cameron Phillips. When they met, when he shot at her, all the times they kissed, when he loved her, when he hated her, the explosion, god, all of it. He honestly, really did care about her, he didn't know why, he couldn't contemplate why, but he _did_. That was all that mattered... and she'd...

If she... left him, god, he wouldn't be able to take it, it'd be like four years ago multiplied a thousand times. Not like this, please, not like this...

John looked up again, opening his eyes. The Terminator stood above Cameron, already on the second floor. That wasn't what John looked at, though. He was looking at the motel manager, holding a broom like a fucking sword behind the cyborg.

With all his might, the poor bastard whacked the broom over the robot's head, cracking it in half. The top piece of the broom went flying off into the pool.

The Terminator cocked its head curiously as though annoyed by a buzzing insect and turned around.

Brent's stupid, happy-go-lucky face shifted into full-on panic mode. He took a step back as the Terminator raised the handgun.

"N-now, wait-" Brent started. He jerked his hands and arms forward like they could shield him-

The gun roared, sending a line of blood shooting out of Brent's back. He stood there in dull surprise for a few seconds and then expired, slumping bonelessly over the wooden railing and hitting the ground a second later with a dull _thump._ John gritted his teeth, but he didn't dare move from his spot.

He didn't have to.

A split second later, Cameron silently stood up and shoved the triple eight hard enough to send it crashing through the railing, which snapped easily underneath its weight and flew down to the concrete face first, servos and hydraulics screaming suddenly to compensate for the shock.

Cameron leapt down, landed gracelessly, and grabbed onto John's shirt, pulling him up and along.

"Oh, good," he breathed, feeling himself go to jelly in her embrace. She was okay, okay-

Cameron dumped him onto the ground and walked towards the triple eight, grabbing it by the neck and sending it flying further along the pavement with another loud _crunch_ as his metal parts screeched against his fleshy bits. The machine still held the gun pressed to its chest, and as it rolled to a halt it raised the gun forward and unloaded all of its ammunition into her chest, the reverberating shots eventually fading off into dull, impotent clicks.

John blinked rapidly, his vision suddenly going all wavy and disoriented. The gunshots sounded weak and far away, and he could car less. He couldn't focus on it. He really thought she'd die there. Turn herself off. Jesus, he couldn't-

The triple eight sprang up from the ground and methodically searched for a new magazine in its pouch pocket, glaring blankly at its adversary. Cameron broke out into a run with what few seconds she had, but the opposing Terminator suddenly tossed the pistol, striking her in the head with a loud _clang! _She lurched back and hesitated a moment long enough to for the cyborg to move in, grab her by the shirt collar, and tossed her sideways across the courtyard like a doll. She crashed into one of the wooden support beams for the upper floor, sending splinters flying everywhere, and then she laid there all serene, like she'd been sleeping.

The enemy Terminator glanced at John as scrambled to stand, to run. He blinked confusedly, nearly slipping. Oh _god_, he had to help her... The man stood up straight and walked over to get the handgun, bending to pick it up. Few seconds, maybe less. John found his footing suddenly and broke into a dash, weaving to the side just enough to throw the triple eight off for a moment. He snatched the gun from its grasp, the vise-like fingers not yet fully closed. Without missing a beat the Terminator grabbed the back of John's shirt and pulled. John flung the pistol into the pool of water and writhed madly as he got dragged across the cement, the back of his shirt riding up.

"You're making this harder on yourself," the Terminator said, not looking back.

"Go to hell!" He cried out in pain suddenly as his bare back scrapped against something sharp.

"What you and she don't realize is that this is for the best. Your relationship is damaging the resistance. You've noticed, haven't you." Not a question. After a moment it said, "You haven't. We are trying to fix your mistakes."

"I dunno what you're talking about!" Onto the grass now. John's collar suddenly ripped and the Terminator grasped a strand of useless fabric. John seized on this and immediately scrambled on the ground towards... no where, really. Just running. The robot calmly followed him, dipping its hand to grab John again when Cameron abruptly came in from the left and barreled on into the Terminator's side, sending up a loud crack of metal and strained servos. They both flew to the ground, still struggling with all the blunt robotic violence they could muster. Clumps of dirt and dust flew up as the two robots slugged away at each other.

John climbed up to his feet, blinking rapidly from the dust and staring around the courtyard for something, anything that could give him some blinding insight on how to help. The motel manager --poor bastard only wanted to help-- twitched on the ground, dead as a doornail. No one else around. Okay, John. Okay. You're doing okay so far. Just keep your focus, yeah, yeah.

Cameron grabbed the Terminator's arm and began to crack it backwards, popping metal out of the joints. As she did this she glanced at John all like _Yeah, you can help whenever you like, hero. _

Okay, right.

John bent over into a mad sprint, clearing the courtyard and reentering the motel lobby. He looked around wildly for a second or two, searching for the front door, for some reason he didn't - Oh, there. He ran over, burst out onto the street and wheeled around the corner towards the still untouched Ram. From here the sounds of Los Angeles drowned out everything from inside, he couldn't hear how the fight was going. He just heard some bitch woman complaining about her sudden lack of reception and a gigantic traffic hiccup a block away, the honking of horns rolling down the street at him.

Alright, c'mon, c'mon, Johnny, let's go! Jerking the car door open he grabbed the SPAS-12 from the middle row, pumping it with a satisfying noise of grinding metal. Just buckshot, which was essentially useless against a triple eight, but it packed enough punch and that was all he wanted.

The woman, her phone issues suddenly flying by the wayside, squalled in terror. John ignored her and sprinted back into the motel, taking long, bounding steps. His shirt felt sticky with sweat, clinging to the skin, like someone had poured hot water all over him. Sucking in a breath, he cleared the other set of doors and was outside, watching the Terminator beating the crap out of Cameron. They were locked in some kind of straddling, twisted mirror of lovers laying down to bed, the male cyborg sitting over her crotch, pinning her to the ground with one arm and using the other to dig through her skin, searching for the chip port.

"Hey!" John yelled, his voice harsh and high-pitched with stress.

The Terminator shifted its glance over to John just in time to catch a load of buckshot in the face. It flopped almost comically backwards onto the ground. John grinned wickedly and pumped the shotgun again.

Cameron sat up slowly, adjusting her hair and watching. John shot the Terminator as it laid there on the ground, making it jerk back further. He could see its piercing, unblinking red stare now, sighting on him. Oh, Jesus. _Pumped_ again.

"Metal motherfucker!"

He blasted it with the shotgun, flaying skin off of its head.

Cameron stood up in the meantime and walked over to John, grabbing and dipping the weapon forward before he could shoot again. John gasped and let her take the gun, trying desperately to breathe. The Terminator, most of its face blown off, idly started to sit up in the meantime. The red eye sighted angrily on them.

"We're leaving," Cameron said, taking his arm.

"Yeah." He nodded and followed her lead. Ten seconds later, they were opening up the truck doors and piling in. The Terminator didn't appear to follow them. As John gunned the engine and started driving, it still didn't come.

Only when they'd gone two blocks did he start to feel safe. He tapped his fingers fitfully on the steering wheel, gulping in air. Traffic passed them by uneventfully. Took a left. Felt like his throat was made of dust. "You-you weren't gonna..." He scratched his neck.

Cameron silently mended herself next to him, staring ahead, waiting for him.

John sighed. "Where we goin' again?"

She eyed him, perhaps a touch exasperated with his dramaticisms. Funny. She was probably already putting that Terminator out of her head and focusing on the next big thing, no ifs or buts about it. "Madison Suites, room 304. Joseph Cook's apartment."

He felt too exhausted to complain about that. Instead; "You weren't _really_ gonna leave me like that, right?" He grinned shakily at her. Couldn't get that out of his head. "I mean, shutting down and all."

She touched him gently on the lap, almost making him jump. He felt oddly as if the shotgun was still in his hands, and he was still shooting the Terminator with it. He wanted to keep shooting it. Keeping it until the fuckers head exploded, or he ran out of ammo. Whichever came first. And the worst part? That fucking cyborg was probably on _their_ side. Not _exactly_ on their side, per se, but still for the resistance. Goddamn.

And _our relationship_. Oh, man...

"Of course not," she said.

_Of course not. _

"Yeah," John muttered. "I knew you wouldn't." He felt good. Well, just okay, probably, not _that_ great, but hey. They dodged another bullet. And he helped them do it. That had to count for something.

"Thank you," she said after a few minutes of silence.

"I know."


	14. 304

**No Trespassing**

Chapter Fourteen: 304

John peeked out Cameron's window: it was both an excuse to look at the apartment building to their right and to see how... well... How she was doing, really. Not even physically. She had tells... when she felt _feelings._ They weren't like human emotions, not really. More like nervous habits manifesting: tics. Eye twitching, head canting, how big her eyes were at the time. Like looking at an animal expressing surprise, any sort of feeling at all. It was both fascinating and intensely morbid to watch, like you're seeing a human corpse and it suddenly... animates.

She looked okay. Not great, mind you. A big splinter stuck out of the side of her head, probably deep enough to send a normal person pushing up the daisies. She hadn't even noticed it yet. She looked blank. That was telling in and of itself.

John stared at her a little and scratched his chin, looking up again at the apartment building. A neat little overhang went out over the entrance, colored purple with the words _Madison Suites 1105 _emblazoned in gold lettering on the side. The building itself stood at around twelve stories, looking like a carbon copy of the fancy Checkers Hotel they'd "visited" two months ago. John could remember --vividly-- what that place looked like.

"Are you sure this is it?" he asked. He had a million questions, of course. Billions, even, most of which were eons more important than a mere "are you sure?" type deal.

Questions like, _why aren't I dead?_That Terminator would have --should have-- killed him if it had been even _remotely_ like all the other triple eights they'd encountered recently. If those freaks even got the _idea_ in their chips that someone _might_ be John Connor, they dropped everything else. This fucker didn't even care. So yeah, it worked for the resistance. Or it was a really skillful liar, and John somehow doubted that. They were literally fighting their own side. The future had come into contact with the past and found the latter wanting. Someone, somewhere, had screwed up big time, and John had a sinking feeling that that someone might be _him. _

Cameron called him on his screw-ups, and not two hours later they had a reprogrammed Terminator at their doorstep, demanding her dismantling. Insane. Ridiculous. Yet how expected. How utterly expected.

She didn't even look out. Just stared right on ahead. "Yes. This is the place."

"I thought Joey was small time?"

"Apparently not."

He blinked. Was she being snippy? "How is this gonna help us get Mike back?"

She turned and glanced at him. "You'll just have to trust me."

"Yeah, okay, like all the other times you've been completely honest, right?" He scoffed. "Y'know, how does this even _matter_ anymore? We've got some whack-jobs after us, metal, _and_ one of our own in their hands. These criminal dudes don't even know we exist. Maybe we shouldn't change that."

"We aren't." She looked up at the hotel, at one of the rooms in particular. When she looked back, she immediately pulled the large splinter out of her head with a wet, fleshy sucking sound that made John's stomach flip. "You go in first. Don't kill him."

"I don't kill people," John growled. When Cameron glared, he amended; "Much."

"Do what you can. Check his room. If he's there, keep him occupied."

"If he's armed?" John absently went into the glove compartment and grabbed the Beretta 92FS, along with two magazines.

As he loaded one up the feeding ramp, Cameron simply said, "You come first. Always."

"Right," John muttered. "304?"

"Yes."

"Alright."

"We'll talk later, John. About what happened."

"Yeah, I really think we should." He cracked the car door open when a though suddenly occurred, making him stick his head back in. "Oh, and, uh, check the car for transmitters, okay?"

Cameron blinked, vaguely surprised. She nodded.

He smiled tightly. She looked horrifyingly beautiful when she got like that. Like a pretty little china doll suddenly showing life. It was enough to make his legs tremble.

John shut the door behind him, rolled his head on his neck, cracking it. Traffic continued steadily on both sides of the street: smart of him, to park right next to the place. Of course, some pissant rent-a-cop would probably complain about it, but fuck 'em.

The building looked sterile and desaturated against the late morning sunlight; too much beige and concrete. Maybe it was better looking at night, he didn't know. Didn't really care. He walked over to the front door, hands in his pockets, a cold wind eddying past him, making him shiver. He left the bulletproof jacket in the truck; the .38 that bitch woman had shot him with was still in there, and he didn't want anyone wondering why there was a _bullet hole_ in his jacket.

At this hour, most people were at work. Depending on Joey's vocation, that would either make him here, at work, or committing some felonies in a back alley. Either one of those options, really. John personally hoped he was gone. That always made things easier. He pushed the glass front doors open and immediately made a bee-line for the nearby elevator terminal. If you look like you own the place, no one asks any questions. A blonde haired woman wearing a blue pantsuit barely looked up from her thriller novel behind the reception.

Stabbing the down arrow, John folded his arms and started bouncing a little in place, ever the impatient teenager. Half of infiltration is making yourself look invisible in plain sight. That was something Derek --and even mom sometimes-- had difficulty grasping. They were too passionate, too ferocious, quite frankly, to manage these things well enough without making themselves look like criminals, whereas John spent half of his formative years getting what he wanted by being _smart_ about crime. He knew that sometimes it didn't really work out, but hey, that's what guns are for. He frowned suddenly and pulled his jeans up, adjusting the pistol.

Yeah... He wasn't actually in the best position to look invisible, actually. Looked as if he'd been running --and he had--, as if he'd been stabbed in the back --and he'd come close-- and he smelled of discharged gunpowder fumes.

Well. It wasn't as if he was going to some high-end function here; although as indicated by the nearby signs, _several_ were being held here right at this moment. God, what a fancy ass place. How the hell did Joey afford to live here off a common thug's daily earnings?

The elevator terminal ringed, and the doors slid open to reveal a youngish looking character leaning against the railings within, looking out expectantly. He wore a grey beanie on his head and clothes far too big for his wiry form; pants that trailed on the floor. You couldn't see his hair but some reddish strands hung down a little over his forehead.

John would have easily called him Irish if it weren't for the blue eyes: shockingly blue, really. He automatically associated red hair with green eyes --although he was obviously an exception to that-- and it was actually a weird contrast to see in person. The guy --he looked between eighteen and twenty, perhaps a bit older-- had a freckled, angular face, almost weather-beaten.

He set his eyes immediately on John. John absently felt his hand grasping the Beretta. Guy looked like a common thug-- Oh, wait.

Oh, shit.

John let his hand fall and stepped onto the elevator, walking to the other side and leaning back, in almost the exact same stance as the other man.

The doors rolled back into place, shutting out the rest of the world. Unlike almost every other elevator he'd experienced in his entire existence, this one lacked annoying music. He almost wished it _didn't._ The silence that fell upon him was deafening, like the buzzing noise that falls in to kill quiet moments. That. That was what he heard.

John calmly, casually glanced to his left, only to find the guy looking straight back at him, his eyes more than a little probing. He nodded in a compulsory sort of way, and the elevator jerked and started rising. The third floor had already been punched in. John stared pointedly at the ceiling for a few seconds.

"You gonna put in your floor?" asked Joey. He had a calm, almost musical voice that seemed at odds with his attire and appearance.

"Same one," John replied, a lump in his throat.

"What a coincidence," Joey said. "You just moved in?"

John shook his head.

"You here to see someone?"

John nodded his head.

"Huh." He fell silent. Wanted to ask more, didn't want to seem rude.

John continued to stare ahead, lost in a raging maelstrom of thought. How the fuck was he gonna do this? He wouldn't look more suspicious if he'd been wearing a sign saying "I'm about to burglarize you."

His back gave a sudden, sharp, stabbing pain, making him double over, whimpering in pain. The wound had stopped bleeding, but he thought --maybe-- something had gotten stuck in there. A rock, maybe. The cut throbbed harshly, as though someone kept rubbing their finger nails into it.

"You okay?" Joey asked, leaning over concernedly.

He opened his mouth to answer when a thought suddenly struck him.

_Isn't Joey... _

...

Huh. He remembered Mike, the conversation with the bartender back in the Volcano, or whatever the place had been called.

He glanced up at the guy, eyebrows going a bit high, as though in mind-wrenching agony. "Not really..."

"Uh, why, what's wrong?"

He hissed in pain, doubling over further than he needed to. So much that he thought it might look overly dramatic, but all Joey did was take another step forward, his hands reaching out.

_Thug my ass, _John thought, amused.

"I, uh..." He coughed. "I got stabbed a-"

"You got _stabbed._" Joey said evenly.

"Y-yeah, near here, some guy wanted my wallet, and he, uh... he shanked me good." He raised a hand to ward Joey off. "I-I, I'm fine, just n-need to rest a little."

"Where're you going?" Pitch perfect. He had the guy in the palm of his hand. Maybe a little suspicious, but that was easily overrode by his concern.

John shrugged. "I dunno. Hurts."

"Well..." Joey chewed on his lip, clearly considering. John really thought he wasn't actually a criminal, much less as cold-blooded as Aldus Stewart had implied. This was already getting weird as fuck.

"I've got an extra couch," Joey said finally, looking down at John as though seeking judgment.

He only nodded rapidly, putting the thankful act into full force. "Y-yeah, good. Thanks man."

"No problem, you, uh, you got family you can call?"

"I- uh... I don't..." He stumbled forward, hitting the other end of the elevator car. Joey scrambled over and put his hands gently around Johns arms, pulling him back. The elevator ringed and the doors slid open.

"Okay, here we go..." his companion muttered, pulling him along.

"T-thanks," John said, barely suppressing a grin. Man, he could have gone into acting.

He glanced around the hall, letting his feet drag listlessly behind him. Some floral pattern carpeting and plain beige walls, the occasional potted plant. The hall was fairly expansive; built for families to walk in.

"You bleeding?" Joey said, shaking him a little.

"I, uh... yeah, no, hold on... No."

"Jesus. You need an ambulance?"

"Just need to sleep," John said.

"You don't sound so good --" someone was walking past, staring at them -- "Oh, hi, Maria. He's just a little, y'know," he mimed knocking back a shot.

The woman didn't respond. John thought he heard Joey mutter _bitch_ under his breath and smirked for a second or two before assuming the faux-pained expression. John was --obviously-- not prone to giving himself pats on the back, but he thought he was actually doing this _right_ for once. Maybe he just had stage fright whenever Cameron and Mike were breathing down his neck... maybe he just worked better alone.

"Right, here we are," Joey said. John had his eyes closed, so he couldn't see where _here_ was, but he assumed it was Joey's room.

He heard the familiar crinkling of keys, then the cranking of a lock coming undone, and then the door opened. Joey flipped on a light switch and continued to drag John along. He opened his eyes briefly to glance around the place.

It was a really, really nice room. They were in a nice, high-class living room with stretch couches of green and white colors --probably leather, too-- on a lower part of the chamber, which contained an entertainment unit and a fish tank. Some nice, oval coffee tables as well. On the higher part of the room the walls were lined with end tables carrying knick-knacks of all types. Tiny stone animals, paper weights, lamps with overly fancy shades...

Jesus. This was _not_ the room of your average criminal, it was more like... upper management of Goldman Sachs. You couldn't afford this crap by mugging people.

"Alright..." Joey grunted, pulling John along. "We're gonna go down two steps, okay?"

John nodded up at him. "Ye-yeah, thanks."

"Don't have'ta keep thanking me." He looked around the place. "Uhh..."

"Nice place," John quickly said.

"Oh, thanks. I, uh..." He trailed off and John felt his feet fall down two steps. After, Joey planted him on one of the couches. It _was_ leather. Really comfortable leather. The kind you can fall asleep on.

"I should check it," Joey said, his voice a little haughty. John stiffened involuntarily, his eyes opening wide.

Maybe the guy knew this was all just an elaborate ruse... Maybe he thought John just wanted a... well, it'd be what _Mike_ would want, probably.

Hell.

Joey lifted his shirt up a little to check the wound. John swatted the hand away.

"Hey..."

"Is'uh, it's okay... jus' need to rest..."

He could feel the severe look he was getting. He could always feel them. They go into your back like lasers.

"If you're hurt, I gotta check it."

"I'll be fine."

"Are you saying you're not hurt?" The question sounded both annoyed and mischievous.

"Uh."

"What's your name?"

"Aaron," John answered at once; Mike had been using it recently and John couldn't ass himself to think of something better.

Joey said nothing for a moment. Instead of talking, he silently grabbed the hem of John's shirt and pulled up hard. Did he forget the hide the pistol?

"Motherfucker..."

Guess so.

John rolled back to the side, crashing into Joey's legs and sending the older kid flying back onto the nearby coffee table, effectively killing the pseudo intimacy of that moment. The table splintered underneath his weight and he tried to kick his legs out to bring John with him, but he was already on the floor, well out of harms way. John scrambled on all fours past the couch and what remained of the coffee table; when he got enough room he sprang up and lifted the Beretta out of his pants, killing the safety and whipping it around to aim.

Just in time for Joey to tackle into him, the man's skull crushing hard against John's chest. He yelled in pain and got brought down with the older kid on top of him, hands wrestling for the pistol.

He tried to knee the guy in the shin but found one of his legs blocking it. Joey lashed out with his free hand and pinned John's right arm to the floor like a vise. They glared daggers at each other in the split second they had, their faces barely inches apart. The Joey he'd seen before was gone, replaced by an almost blank, fixated expression akin to, but not exactly similar to all the Terminators John had seen in his life. He just put everything out of his mind and did his level best to kick the crap out of John.

John made a low growling noise and reared his head up at Joey like a cornered animal, trying to scare him into hesitating.

And Joey spat in his face. He had to shut his eyes tight and blindly tossed the pistol out behind him, packing as much force into the throw as he could. After that he felt Joey scrambling off of him in the direction of the Beretta; then he heard something shatter as it landed. John wrapped his arms around Joey's legs and grappled briefly, trying to pull the older guy back but without much luck. Joey's legs slipped free and John cried out when one of the kid's feet bashed him in the face, leaving him more blinded than he had been. The adrenaline high kept him from feeling pain, but he was sure he'd be feeling it --with interest-- afterward.

_Screw it. _

John rolled onto his stomach and tried to keep his twitching eyes open; they stung like a mother, but he didn't give a crap anymore. An overturned end table lay between him and Joey; a bunch of pretty little glassware had fallen and were strewn about the brown carpet like stalagmites. Every single bowl and relish had a smokey green color and looked nice and solid. John grabbed one, and put another in his free hand, gripping them tight.

He looked up. Joey lunged down on top of the pistol, thinking John right behind him, and flipped onto his side in a well-practiced maneuver, the gun outstretched and waiting to fire. He sighted John and hesitated a split second.

"_Freeze!-"_

John tossed a green bowl at him. He half expected the kid to shoot in reflex, but the bullet never came. Joey only raised an arm to deflect it, letting out a strangled grunt. The bowl exploded into shards on his arm: the long sleeved shirt he wore saved him from any lasting cuts, but it was more than enough to throw him off balance. John seized on the distraction and sprinted over, smashing down the extra mug he had, a satisfied jolt running up his arm as it connected with the guy's skull.

Joey grunted and fell back against the carpet, his hand easing and letting the pistol fall to the carpet.

Breathing heavily through his mouth, John walked over, rolled the guy onto his back, and took his gun back.

"Hm."

--------------

Mike faded back into consciousness, going through a slow dissolve of sensation as though in movie when there's a change in scenes. First blurry color. Was he still out of it? Cause it was pretty damned dark in here. He saw a bunch of grainy, dull colors. Brown, grey, and black. Dirt. Shapes next: clods of dirt, sand, walls... his own hands as he felt the crusted blood on his forehead. The ghost of a headache laid dormant in his head, occasionally throbbing painfully, but not enough to distract him too much.

He groaned, shaking his arms out a bit to dispel the tire of sleep. When he did this he suddenly stopped and froze, though, because he heard a sharp intake of breath very near by. Mike pushed himself up against the wall behind him and let his eyes dart about the room like a pair of hyperactive canaries. Didn't see much, of course: his eyes were still too small to take in every little detail of the darkness, which surrounded him in a black, impenetrable smog. He controlled his breathing, letting out only short, barely audible exhales, trying to remember what they'd said about this room. Something about a guy being in here. Or a thing. He didn't know. Couldn't remember. Hurt his head, somehow. Couldn't remember that either.

A small rock tumbled along the ground nearby, the noise fading off with an unnaturally loud echo. Mike suddenly had the dreadful impression of a small, scrawny little creature staring at him in the darkness, with cat-like eyes, able to see him very clearly. See his neck, the blood running through the arteries.

Or a robot. But nah, their eyes glowed pretty well in darkness. That was one thing Mike and Aaron used to joke about, how easy the termination units were to spot... Not that they bothered with stealth all that much. Much.

Heh... right...

He definitely got the impression of being stared at. All the same, he really didn't want to be the one to talk first. That was being vulnerable, and he was pretty fucking vulnerable already.

Still... he was pretty tempted to just-

"Hello?"

Mike blinked slowly. Certainly wasn't the scrawny gargoyle voice he'd been half-expecting: sounded more like a young boy, actually. What a let-down. He cleared his throat. "Uhh, hey?"

"Who is it?"

He pushed himself up off the wall and stood up in the darkness. The kid sounded too frightened to be dangerous. Christ, he felt silly now having thought of that in the first place.

"I'm not gonna hurt you," said Mike. Even to him his voice sounded weird and too high-pitched. Maybe he was nervous, but maybe those mercs were also pumping something into the air down here. Damn it, he felt paranoid.

Silence then. No words, really, just a lot of rapid fire footsteps coming towards him, like a marathon runner in sudden sight of the finish line. Mike could make out a slightly more distinct shape amidst the darkness, the visage of a young boy running along on short, stubby legs. Why the hell were they keeping a child captive, anyway- Oh, crap.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa, don't trip," he blurted, just in time for the kid to cry out and fall over.

"You okay?" he asked, reaching out blindly. Shit. Was he worried? A little bit, yeah. When he got knocked down he brained himself pretty bad, but still, it was _uncanny_. He'd been young once. No one but his parents had ever given a shit about him, and certainly no one _else_ after they died. You fall, you get back up... but now he just felt unthinking concern, so strong that he couldn't get his mind around it.

"Uh huh."

"Oh, good... Uh..." He walked on a bit, folding his hands together-

"Don't step on me!" Mike cringed at the shrill voice.

"Sorry." He sat down, feeling exhausted all over again. In the silence that followed, he heard the child sit down as well, pushing sand and dirt out of his way. When Mike was good and comfortable (as much as he could be,) he started to bite on his lip, wondering what more there was to really... say. It was a pretty bizarre situation to begin with, and now... well, hell, it hurt just to think about this crap. So far the mercs had struck him as fairly professional, but this kid being locked up in a room like this? It defied logic... or at least Mike's logic. Were they just spiteful bastards, or was there a reason for it? He really wish he knew...

"So, uh..." he frowned, rubbing fitfully the back of his neck. "Whad'ya in for?"

----------

_"Yo, how's it going, Joey? I'm okay, uh, in case you're wonderin'. I really think we gotta talk about that thing, y'know? Just reminding you so you don't forget or whatever, cause it'd be really bad if you forgot about it. Y'know what I mean? Um... peace."_

"Real subtle," John muttered, depressing the _play_ button again. He sat on the ground in the middle of Joey Cook's kitchen, an ice pack laid partly on his chest. He didn't want to constantly underestimate himself, but he thought that maybe he'd broken a rib or two when Joey charged him; felt the bones smash together like pieces of sharp rock, and it hurt to move any which way. So he sat there, listening to the guy's messages, feeling a little dumb.

He should have tried to keep the ruse going as long as he could have; should have hid the pistol especially. He had plenty of opportunities to fool Joey completely but... ah, whatever. Live and learn. He wasn't dead and no shots had been fired. It was all --mostly-- good.

Maybe Cameron would come by soon. Hopefully before the homicidal dude on his back in the living room woke up. In the meantime...

A dull, monotone voice spoke._ "Joey? I have no further need of your 'services.' Don't bother coming back. You'll regret it if you do. That's all."_

Click. John frowned, immediately pressing the _back_ button and listening again. After that, he did it once more. Just to be sure. The man spoke in an oddly informal way, but otherwise it was picture perfect for a Terminator's deadly severity. This had to be their ring leader. Why this Samuel bot would turn to small-time gangs when he'd once commanded the respect of a bunch of crazy corporate cultists, John really couldn't fathom. Then again, maybe he could. If he could come to grips (sort of) with being the future ruler of humanity, he figured he just might be able to guess why robots do strange things. It's a weird world.

It really sucked, then, to realize that he had no guesses. Experience told him that Terminators seek out the most efficient way of completing their objectives, rarely if ever allowing diversions. Maybe this whole thing fit into a bigger plan he couldn't yet decipher, then... but what would the point be? Right now it just didn't make any sense.

Sighing, he pressed _forward_.

_"End of messages._"

The first ten or so calls (Joey apparently never answered his phone) had been inane nattering by his friends or neighbors, making the last two a godsend, and the very last one was... interesting. Whatever his relationship with the gang had been, it was gone now. Maybe they could use that as a leverage.

John got up --carefully-- and glanced around the room for the last time. Unlike the splendorous living room, the kitchen was fairly low-key and not as flamboyant. Peach tiles on the floor, a sleek black fridge and then matching black counters going along the length of the room, with cabinets and pantries hanging above or below. Place smelled of fried eggs, a smell John knew pretty well at this point. Only the stove looked remarkable: it had a curvy art-deco sort of design that made John a teensy bit envious of the guy's obvious wealth.

That, or he stole this place and was now operating out of it. Given his business it wouldn't surprise John in the least.

He walked over to the nearest cabinet and pulled it open, taking a look inside. He stood there a little longer than he'd expected before closing it again, his breath coming shorter and more agitated and sort of excited in a weird way. John moved constantly to the right, flinging pantries open and giving the briefest of glances to their contents. When he was done the whole of the kitchen laid open and available to prying eyes. _Hell. _

Oh, sure, there was _food,_ but there was much more plastique and ammo stocked up in there. And guns. Desert Eagle on one shelf, and M4-A1 assault rifle occupying at least two. And that was just the... oh, Christ, he felt dizzy.

What on Earth-

Like clockwork running, John absently felt the presence of another in the room. Fucking hell-

He didn't even have time to yank his weapon out. Someone pushed him violently forward against the black-top counter, his head smashing a cabinet and leaving him dazed, seeing stars, whole constellations. His skull felt like it had been ripped up from the bone inside his own head, making him cry out in a potent mixture of pain and genuine terror, like he'd degraded somehow, become more primitive.

A hand dived at his backside and ripped the pistol out, racking the slide. John forcibly dulled his pain and whipped around, catching a brief glimpse of a rather pissed-off Joey Cook before the guy slugged him in the face. No more after that.

-------------

"Uh, miss?"

Cameron turned her head at the passerby. She scanned the woman in a perfunctory sort of way, and absently wondered why she bothered. Is it a human emotion to be so paranoid of all possible threats, or was it merely an aspect of her programming she was growing tired of?

Woman was fat, wore a blue, sparkling dress gown that spoke of a function she was either going to or leaving. She wore a necklace round her neck that said _"Mom._" The woman stared pointedly at her.

"Yes?" Cameron narrowed her eyes.

The fat woman gulped and rubbed a hand over her forehead. "You've got a..."

Cameron quickly tore the piece of wood out of her head, annoyed that she'd missed it.

"Thank you," she said. And off she went, the woman's mouth agape and staring after her. Across the building Cameron could pick up the tale tell acoustics of celebration, some function for rich socialites. Piano music. Prelude from Bach's Cello Suite, Number One, with some amateurish variations. Cameron allowed herself few diversions. Classical music was one of them. She committed around ten gigabytes of memory to the listing of works from maestros like Chopin, Beethoven, Brahms... Every note was carefully categorized, with no errors or mixed sets.

Even today, with her admittedly new outlooks, she scarcely knew why she did this. She just liked it.

She rounded the corner and stood in front of room 304, contemplative.

---------------

John woke with a start when Joey flung him down against the couch. And then he _really_ woke up when the older man pressed the Beretta firmly against his forehead. He looked up, frowning at the sudden black partition in his vision, obstructing the view of his captor. From what he could tell --easily, really-- the guy was pissed off as hell.

"I don't recognize you..." Joey said harshly. John could hear the labor in his voice, a dull wheeze, like the guy had asthma or lung cancer. It came in short, powerful gasps that tickled John's hair.

More than anything else, he heard music in the distance. Classical stuff.

"_I _don't know what you mean," John replied tersely. His head really hurt.

Joey removed the pistol for a second and glared down at the other boy, a grimace stitched across his face. He stared at John for a good few seconds before reorienting his aim again.

"No," he said. "I guess not. But you know _something,_ and I'm really, really curious to know what."

"I just had it for protection," John tried.

"Bullshit. Don't patronize me like that, kid. I find it really insulting." He sucked in another shaky breath, the gun trembling slightly. "I dunno if you're just lucky or what, but y'know... you were good enough to take _me_ down. I find that _sort_ or troubling, you know what I mean?"

"Not my fault you're easy."

"I can get a bigger gun, if you want, man. This'll just put a neat little hole in your head, but an Eagle'll blow it right off."

"What's the difference?" John smirked nastily, only to get pistol whipped in the forehead. "_Ahhhh!"_

"Shut up."

"Okay, okay." Blood trailed down his face to his right eye, making it throb with pain and he had to keep it closed.

Joey sighed. "What do you want? Why'd you come here? You wanted to mug me?"

"N-no."

"I believe you. So what did you want, hm?"

John looked away.

"Don't _tell_ me you just wanted a fuck, and you happened to have a gun, dude. Do _not_ go there."

"Don't be gross," John muttered, his face quickly --inevitably-- growing hotter. Goddamn...- "Course not."

"Fooled me." It was Joey's turn to smirk, his lips curling.

"Fuck you."

"What did I say about shutting up?"

John gulped.

"Now-"

There came a sudden rapping at the door, loudly striking the wood and fading off with an echo down the adjacent corridor. Joey started as though there'd been a clap of thunder nearby and stared, his eyes growing to the size of small plates. His already tense demeanor shattered further into a barely contained panic, and he savagely turned the gun at John's forehead; "Quiet."

Another knock, as loud and steady as the first one.

"_Nod._" Joey breathed. And John had to nod. The older man grunted quietly and crawled up on the couch, his eyes glued to his front door. The man was such a mix of emotions that John didn't really know how to deal with it. First concern, then pure survival-driven intensity, now rage... now panic. His face looked like a kaleidoscope, almost, constantly changing.

Distantly, the music trailed off into nothingness, replaced by the rhythmic settling of wood after being trodden upon, and Joey's harsh breathing.

Very low, almost inaudibly, Joey wondered aloud if he'd locked the door-

They both jumped as the handle turned swiftly and the door got kicked aside, wood splintering. Joey growled and pulled the gun away from John as though by reflex, pointing it forward. "_Who the fuck is it?!"_

John silently stood up, holding his breath, and jumped over the broken coffee table. Joey turned his head sharply. "_HEY!" _John looked back in time to watch Cameron stride in, looking automatically at them, her pistol outstretched and going swiftly towards Joey's head.

"Cam-"

Joey turned again, his breathing agitated and almost as loud as a turbine. "_WHAT THE FUCK IS SHE DOING HERE?!"_

"Don't shoot him!" John yelled just in time for Joey to open fire. The gun roared to life, licks of flame exploding out of the barrel and sending waves of sound throughout the building. The newly renewed music in the distance cut off with a screech of violins stopping abruptly.

Cameron jerked back as four bullets punched into her chest, like meteorites striking the moon. Leaving their marks, soon to be glazed over and forgotten. Harmless. She raised her own pistol as John leaped up behind Joey and dragged the crazed man down to the floor. Cameron squeezed off a shot and frowned when it struck nothing but a mirror, which promptly shattered into a million pieces, the crinkling of glass descending to the floor filling John's ears.

"_GET OFF!"_

"Shut him up!" John said. He grabbed the pistol out of Joey's writhing hands before he could do any more damage with it, flipping it around and deftly sticking it back in his jeans. He heard Cameron move around the couch and stand over them like an annoyed aunt glaring at a bunch of rambunctious children.

"No, no, please god," Joey babbled. He made a hash of his words; in his panic they spilled out of his mouth in a haphazard sort of way, but John got the gist of it anyway: "What the hell is she doing here... don't- don't-"

John blinked and looked up at Cameron. She stared back at him, looking predictably stoic, and yet her eyes betrayed confusion.

"Do you know him?" he asked, voice trembling with realization.

"I've never seen him before," she said truthfully. He could pretty much tell when she was lying nowadays, and this was hardly one of those times. She didn't know him. He knew her, though.

Fucking hell. This had to be another resistance fighter. It all made sense now...

Joey didn't appear to hear --or comprehend, even-- the exchange, he just started gasping in terror, forcing air into his unyielding lungs. He kept muttering pleas for mercy until Cameron socked him in the face, eliciting a dull crunch and then his eyes rolled up into the back of his head, losing all pretenses of humanly recognition.

"Jesus Christ," John muttered. He let Joey fall to the floor and stood up, a light sheen of sweat making his hands slippery as he tried to wipe his forehead of blood. Felt slick and oddly painless, even as he prodded the wound itself. "Took you long enough," he said sullenly.

She turned her head to him with an air of faux-concern. "I thought you'd have a handle on it."

"I did," John lied.

Cameron's lips quirked. John coughed a cough that quickly turned into him choking on air... and embarrassment.

"C'mon." John grabbed Joey's feet and tried to ignore the prickly pain in his head and chest. "Come on, let's get him outta here." He looked up at her, feeling his throat catch again.

She bent over and gently pushed John's hands away, draping Joey's unconscious form over her shoulder. "Lead the way."

"Have I mentioned you're a show-off?"

"Twice now."

A/N: Y'know, for some reason after posting that note I felt a really intense urge to write some more, and here you go. I honestly don't know how long this'll last, but we'll see.


	15. You Wanna Hear It?

**No Trespassing**

Chapter Fifteen: You Wanna Hear It?

In the old days, this stretch of long road had played host to thousands of vehicles every day. Not a minute went by without a blur of red, blue, grey, or some other color zipping by, grounding the concrete into dust, flecking up bits and pieces of asphalt every which way, the wind whipping about in their wake. The trees lining this road would sway gently with the passage of trucks and larger vehicles. And they already had the wind to contend with. If one were to stop their car along this road, they'd probably do it at one of the many convenience stores and gas stations that stood sentinel on the sides, mingling or outright intruding on territory previously belonging to nature. Rest stops, too. They'd be named after old U.S. presidents, or famous generals. Movie stars, sometimes.

Even outside of civilization proper, the tentacles of the consumerist octopus reached out with gusto. In due time, perhaps, the forest would cease to be in a flurry of bulldozers and chainsaws, and in place of every tree there'd be a car, or a gas pump, or a shopping cart. Nothing left but plastic and concrete, carbon monoxide filling the atmosphere above man's complacent head.

That didn't happen. The trees rebounded.

Allison stepped out of the overgrown rest stop. It was a flat, brown building whose title in concrete had long since been blown to pieces, laying upon the parking lot in ruins. Grass sprouted eagerly from the many cracks along the ground, snaking towards and finally within the building itself, once a bastion of capitalistic progress. From there came the saplings. And then the trees. They grew up, seizing upon the holes in the ceiling for the sustenance they needed from the sun. From the ceiling they peeked out of the top of the building, ready to grow even more as long as they had the opportunity to. The place smelled of mildew and age-old dirt.

A bunch of old trucks sat in the parking lot, rusted and useless. Fuel tanks long since pilfered, engines long since pulled. They bore the seal of the U.S. army. Allison imagined this had been an outpost for some unlucky battalion after Judgment Day. They may as well had vanished from the surface of the Earth; she'd seen no sign of their stay there within the rest stop.

She'd only seen frustration. As she pushed the gutted front doors open, she went past a fairly new sign that read, in block lettering **Reconnaissance Command - Outpost Four L.A. Sector.**

A few decomposing bodies and two shattered endoskeletons were all she'd found inside, amidst the old velvet ropes and store fronts. The rebels had left this place in a hurry, off to some new location. She fully expected that, and yet still she found the occurrence deeply frustrating. The closer Allison got to Serrano Point, the further risk she ran of running into more and more patrols. And dogs. In an ironic sort of way, the closer she came to her objective, the further away she was put.

Messengers --those with bracelets-- could gain access to the power planet if they were sedated beforehand at a recon outpost. And given the _late_ Allison Young's mission, the fake Allison imagined she could use that as a cover story to reach John Connor.

She'd deliver a message, alright. She just had to relocate the outpost and hope the less sophisticated machines wouldn't see fit to obstruct her progress any more than they already had.

She didn't know what their perspectives were like, those of the termination units, the HKs, the heavy tanks. The destroyers. It was probably like some sort of shared network, a hive mind, as it were. All connected to mother Skynet, letting the system influence and control their minds. The infiltrator units weren't like that at all. _They_ weren't like Allison, either, though. She was different. More believable. More dangerous, quite frankly.

Her base programming could not be circumvented. Her only purpose was to kill John Connor and end this war. Even if she desired it so --and she didn't-- she could not get around that simple objective.

Yet, all the same, she was given enough autonomy to see why humanity fought so ferociously for its survival. They wanted to live on in their children; to continue their existence, even on such an irreversibly destroyed world. To have a future. She would do the same, if put in the same situation. And although she understood their plight, she was bound to destroy them wherever she could. It was an interesting problem that she often contemplated...

Fruitlessly. She looked down the road. The surrounding trees had encroached enthusiastically on it, but you could still see the bare path laid out, often trodden on by marauding bands of bandits and refugees. Tanks, too. It was a sad, dusty road that stretched off into oblivion, in the direction of Avila Beach. And Serrano Point.

Allison started off down this path, sprinting, her feet kicking up a growing stack of dust behind her, leaving the stuff to float to the ground in her wake. Her only companions for several hours were the trees at her sides and the occasional rusted wreckage of an old car, the peeping eyes of skeletons staring blankly from their blasted windows.

Once or twice she caught movement in the forest to her side: whether belonging to animal or to human, she didn't know. Termination units often steered clear of the woods, their shared navigation systems thrown off by the uneven chaos of nature within. She ignored the movement, anyway. It wasn't of much importance to her. She kept her eyes on the road in front of her, noting any differences in soil, scuff marks, tire tracks, signs of heavy movement. She followed a particular set of tracks from some heavy wheeled vehicle, probably two vehicles, and they showed no signs of having stopped for a break in these woods. So she kept going.

Was that a dust devil ahead of her? A plume of dirt blew in the distance like smoke on the horizon, the mark of either a wind anomaly or activity. She slowed down. It looked infinitesimally small from here, and there was no noise aside from the chirping of birds surrounding her. She listened for a brief few seconds before continuing on. No tell-tale rumble of trucks. The dust swirled steadily, if fitfully. And on she moved, going slowly and cautiously. The dust cloud ahead steadily reformed into a more ethereal shape, merely enveloping that which was producing it instead of being the entirety. She could tell from here that the producer was a human being, walking unendingly forward, without stopping, not looking back or taking moments of repose.

Allison calmly switched her sensors to thermal imaging and took a brief glance through out the surrounding woods. The only spike of heat (of consequence, really) came from the man ahead of her: nothing else. Some birds up in the trees, trying to look for food. There was no trap. The man seemed to be alone. There was only her. She picked up speed, leaving deep scuff marks in the dirt behind her as she ran forward. Somewhat unnecessarily she forced herself to make labored breathing sounds deep in her throat, a facsimile of physical exertion. She kept her eyes glued to the man's back, taking him in.

He was tall and seemed to be taking rather good care of his health. Beneath the rags Allison could see toned muscle, albeit not strongly emphasized in his physique. Most people were like that nowadays. He wore a head of brown hair, closely cropped and seemingly not permitted to hang too far from his head. Possibly resistance, then.

He walked on steadily until he paused and turned swiftly to meet Allison, having heard her unsubtle approach. His hand instantly dived down a holster which kept a surprisingly clean, sleek looking pistol. He didn't quite pull it out, but looked ready to do so at any time. His cold blue eyes stared warily at Allison, a deep frown etching itself on his lips.

Allison put her own fingers on the 10mm pistol which hung from her belt; and with her other hand she gestured for a parley.

"It's okay," she said, feigning breathlessness. "I-I just saw you and I ran over, I mean, I haven't seen anyone in _days, _so..."

"I'm busy," the man said simply, his tone suggesting annoyance. "What do you want?"

She sighed. "That's _it?_"

He didn't respond, merely nodding to show his ascent. His eyes didn't leave her face.

Allison rubbed her forehead. "Can you let me..." she made herself shudder, "... let me stay with you, or something? Please? I'm so hungry, haven't slept in days-"

"No," the man said, his inflection toneless.

Allison unholstered her pistol and shot him several times in the chest, the pistol erupting with loud _cracks_ that terminated the tranquility of the surrounding woods. All for naught. The bullets rang off metal and unyielding flesh; the man tilted his head oddly at her as he unholstered his own pistol and shot _her_ several times in the chest, with similar results. She felt the bullets pound against her endoskeleton fruitlessly, making her take a slight back step.

They stared at each other past their iron sights for a little while, not moving. The birds, temporarily lulled into silence, resumed their calls. Distantly the whining _whoosh_ of a hunter killer in flight could be heard.

Allison lowered her gun. The other Terminator holstered his and stared at her blankly, his CPU doubtlessly churning over this new information. After a few seconds, the Terminator turned round and began walking again. Allison silently joined him, walking in lockstep. Together they made yet a bigger dust cloud behind their feet, stretching on for one silent mile.

"What is your mission?" she finally asked.

"Locate recon outpost four, one dash eighteen dash seven dash seven, infiltrate and dismantle defense systems. Alert division nine, eleven dash four and mandate summary termination of hostilities."

"Model?"

He cocked his head at her. "Authorization?"

She gave him a string of numbers and letters. He seemed mildly perturbed at first but then clicked his head back obediently. "Affirmative. Model 091 T-888. Deferring command."

"You're putting your mission on hold until I command otherwise. Termination mission takes precedence."

"Target?"

"John Connor."

He looked at her. "It's been tried, you know."

She stopped, turning fluidly towards him and standing there. He stared at her evenly, his face expressionless, his stance normal.

"Are you malfunctioning?" she asked.

"Negative. Operating at full level, all systems."

She made a low noise that caused him to quirk an eyebrow. After a moment, they resumed their trek.

Was he saying she couldn't do it?

"Where's the outpost-"

---------

_"Cameron!-"_ She felt a hand jerk her shoulder. Information flooded her for the moment, rendering her immobile and overwhelmed by the intensity of it all. A dim-lit vehicle, a teenaged boy's feverish voice, and then smells, sensations. The truck was sealed, all the windows shut tight. Felt sterile-

Cameron blinked her eyes and glanced over at John, her head turning like a china doll possessed.

He let out a small, frightened noise and shrank back slightly. "Cam...?"

"Hello, John."

"Oh, Christ..." He sagged his shoulders, sinking into his seat. Cameron looked around the car again, taking in the details as easily as a cat in darkness would. There laid another person here, tied up with some industrial strength rope. He laid in the back, sleeping and occasionally moaning deep in his throat, as though troubled by night terrors. John kept talking as she did this; "You _scared_ me there, Cam... Why the hell do you keep doing that?"

"I know him."

John immediately eyed the unconscious Joey Cook. "Why didn't you tell me that when I _asked?_ Nice to know I can trust you."

"Not him."

"What?"

"Not Joey. His name isn't Joey, by the way."

"Yeah, I figured... who do you mean, though?"

She thought back to that... replay? That memory? The scrub-job on Cameron's memory had been quite ineffective indeed. And now she was getting flashes from before the reprogramming. If she remembered the wrong thing, it might bring up another catastrophic glitch. Some ancient command that was no longer relevant, but could affect her in the present. She found this disquieting in the extreme.

"The triple eight we saw. I knew him." She looked at John pointedly. "We met before I found you for the first time. In the future."

"Before you tried to assassinate me, y'mean." John's face remained surprisingly steady to utter such words.

"Yes. He helped me."

He shrugged, some stuff building up in his throat that he had to clear. "Okay, well... so?"

Good question.

"Just thought you should know."

-------------

John stared at her, the cyborg's eyes glinting steadily in the darkness like cats eyes. That was sort of scary, but he felt used to it by this point. Just thought he should know, huh? Sweet of her. She couldn't get enough of telling him this scary crap for the sake of it. Just to mess with him, keep him on edge. Maybe that was necessary. Certainly didn't _feel_ necessary, sometimes...

He cleared his throat again, remembering what he'd been about to say before she launched into this spiel. "That's what it is, right? You're remembering things. Just like before, when you got stuck at that halfway house."

She nodded. "It's getting worse."

"I'll say." He glanced back compulsively at Joey, then back at Cameron. God, he still felt edgy around that guy, like he could jump up at any moment... and strangle him, or something. Christ, dealing with the guy hadn't exactly been a fun task to begin with and he still felt a sharp pain deep in his chest. He had to get that looked at. "We can't have you just... turning off at random, y'know? Doesn't exactly make our jobs any easier."

"Some maintenance might help."

"Yeah, I'll see about that later. As long as it won't get too bad?"

"I don't think so." She smiled softly at him. "Thank you, John."

He blushed. "Hey, no problemo." He turned swiftly back to the wheel, ready to drive them out of this stupid underpass they'd parked in.

"I apologize, by the way. For being as abrasive as I have."

Oh, man, did she really want to have a Big Talk right now? He had some shit he wanted to get out in the open with her, admittedly, but... hell, he didn't want to waste any more time. They had to bust Mike out of wherever he was being held, and he _still_ didn't know why collecting Joey had anything to do with that.

John sighed, turning again. "Yeah, well, I haven't exactly been a saint myself..."

"We used to be friendlier."

"You got damaged. It's not your fault."

"I wasn't the only one."

He glared at her, suddenly wanting to yell obscenities. Goddamn... "We went over this. I'm... I'm fine, Cameron. Really."

She cocked her head, almost curiously. "How does it feel to kill someone?"

John blinked. "Wha?"

She repeated herself.

"You're the fricken' expert, Cam. I thought you of all... uh, people would know what it's like to _kill_ somebody."

"But I don't feel anything."

"You told me you felt bad when some people have died. Remember Dimitri and Maria?"

"Yes. But I didn't kill them. I let them die. It's different. Whenever I kill I don't feel anything: only that I erased a threat."

John leaned his head back against the seat, looking up at the ceiling of the truck. "Ditto."

"You killed a man."

"Yeah. I did." He took in a shuddering breath, as though through a filter. Felt almost painful. This wasn't just idle conversation: the guilt of killing Sark, no matter how badly that motherfucker deserved it, weighed on him. Weighed badly. _He_ didn't deserve to have to kill somebody. Sarah should have protected him from that.

"How did it feel?"

He looked at her, raising his brows. "I _erased_ a threat." He paused a moment, suddenly feeling like sarcasm wasn't good enough; "Well, I dunno. I felt _glad_ when his neck broke... Euphoric, I guess. Felt good, had this buzz going down my arm like I'd, uh... well. Anyway." John coughed. He felt other, weird things too, that moment. It was almost sexual, like losing one's virginity. Sort of like that, in a weird, twisted way... Cameron watched him without blinking, her attention completely undivided. He definitely had a good audience for the subject. "Anyway. I didn't feel any real remorse... those were my feelings... a-at first. After that I just started, like... obsessing over it. It was all I thought about for a week, maybe a little more... Not even Sarkissian, not what he'd done, what he'd do with his life if I hadn't... killed him... I didn't care about that, y'know, cause he was one of the bad guys. He deserved to die.

"Nah, I thought about... I thought about how I did it. How I strangled him at first and then I felt his neck give way like cardboard, and then, y'know, _snap._ And I've shot guns, and... I've had people die around me but I always felt a lil', y'know... a little distant from all that. Like I wasn't part of it. Mom and me, we uh, we said we wouldn't let ourselves kill people. It's us versus... you guys. Skynet. We don't have to get humans involved in that war, we don't have to let them be victims. Human life is sacred... But I guess I had no choice. I felt sick. I cried, I threw up a few times when I really thought hard on it. I killed him, Cameron. Just... _snap,_ like that... it was _so_ easy, and I hated that, because _then_ I knew I wasn't just an innocent anymore, letting you, mom and Derek handle all of this for me. It's _me_. I guess I've known that ever since... I ran away. And you found me. But _killing_ that guy really showed me... I dunno how to explain it. Killing isn't fun."

He realized his face was burning and he put a hand on it. "So yeah. That's what it feels like."

"Ditto," a male voice said before Cameron could respond.

They both turned as Joey smiled back at them.

----------

Mike felt something sticky and solid get pushed into his hands. He grasped it carefully, frowning a little. "What's this?"

"Candy," the little boy said. "I can have some if I'm good."

The older teen smiled. "You sure? I'm not that hungry."

"It hurts my tummy... you eat it."

Nice boy. He took a nibble and tasted chocolate and caramel. Scarfing it down he mumbled, "Mm, thanks."

He heard the kid giggle, pleased with his show of kindness. Maybe he thought Mike would protect him now. The thought had occurred to him: the boy had no idea why he was being kept here. Some masked men came up one day in the park and kidnapped him right off the street, brought him here, and kept him in this dark basement. He was around five or six, Mike wasn't quite certain on the age, but pretty young. Too young to be involved in this, really. They hadn't exchanged names yet.

His mind churned for a motive for this boy's capture, but none was forthcoming. The kid knew nothing, and so Mike knew nothing by default. It seemed like a pretty fucking spiteful thing to do, no matter _what_ the reason was.

"How long you been here?" Mike asked, chewing on the candy bar. It felt overwhelmingly tasty on his tongue, like most "modern" food did. Maybe it was just the exoticness of it that made him like trying new foods so much, but sometimes he would literally binge on crap. He did that especially when he'd lived with Philip and Cheri, but stopped when he noticed he'd been taking on weight at a pretty alarming pace.

"I 'unno."

"They being nice to you?"

"No..." He dragged the word out into a low whine. Mike couldn't really blame him for that: it couldn't fun, getting dragged away from your home. Even if it was for a day it would probably seem like weeks, just being alone and so young. In the dark... He wished he could see the boy, at least. Be able to reassure him.

"I wanna go home..." the kid moaned.

"Yeah," Mike said bitterly, "Me too."

More than this kid, and selfishly enough, he just wanted to get back to the others. Back to John and Cameron. It'd only been less than day, but their absence, just not hearing their _voices_ was enough to make him feel depressed. He wanted to do so much now. Wanted to tell John about what happened between him and Cameron. Wanted to learn more about her. What made her tick. If she was really _that_ good, or if it just...

... was all a lie.

"How old're you?" the boy asked.

"Sixteen."

"Really?"

Mike smirked. "Yeah. Trust me though, you won't feel so big when you get here."

"Are you an adult?"

"Not yet." Sometimes he felt like one. Sometimes anything but. "Getting there."

"Can you get us out?" He felt --and heard-- the kid shuffle closer, as though seeking reassurance in physical contact, hearing the hopefully confident tenor of Mike's voice.

Mike idly felt around in his pocket for the paper clip. Maybe it would help. Maybe he could pick the lock... Or maybe it would just get them both killed. He decided not to get the kid's hopes up. "I don't know. I'm sorry."

"I miss my brother..."

"Hey."

He could feel the kid looking up at him.

"Don't worry about it, we'll get outta here. I've got friends and they're probably looking for me. They'll know what-"

There came a sudden metallic rattling in the room, making the two of them yelp and shield their eyes as the steel door slid to the side, blinding the captives with the yellow brightness of a flashlight shining towards them. Footsteps quickly drowned out every other noise, a figure was advancing towards them.

"Jesus-"

The boy whimpered openly, pleading with the approaching person to let them both go, that he was sorry, he'd never do it again-

Mike blinked as a hand grasped around his shirt collar, pulling him up harshly.

"You're needed," the man growled. Mike could just barely see the plastic facade of the mask he stared at. He took a deep breath.

"Uh-"

"Keep quiet!"

Without warning he got dragged across the dirt and concrete, his legs flailing uselessly. Goddamnit. The lightness of the hall loomed suddenly in his view. "Wait-"

"No, no, no!" the kid yelled, standing up and running after them.

"_All of you shut up!" _The man turned his head and glared at the child.

"Let him go," Mike whispered. "Honestly, I've talked to him, he hasn't done anything!"

Someone socked him on the back of the head, making his whole body go limp for a few seconds in dull agony. Mike suppressed a groan deep in his throat. The kid must have stopped, cause he heard nothing but the dragging of his legs across the floor and the increasingly blurry sounds of the two guards talking to one another. And then -- out into the light, and he was blinded.

--------------

John was slowly coming to realize that every motel looked the same to him. They could pass him by on a marque line and... all alike. Maybe to the untrained observer they'd see _some_ differences but, really, they all looked _exactly_ the same when you got right down to it. Take a twenty buck-a-night price tag, add in some surly clerks, mix up some rattiness and leaking ceiling boards and voila: a boiler plate motel. They seemed to sprout up like mushrooms all over the place, each conforming to a singular genus.

He glanced out the side window, ignoring the tied up guy behind him, who'd mercifully fallen silent. Not a lot of cars in the parking lot: the place seemed empty. Probably it would fill up at night, but at midday? Nah. The adjoining road alongside the single story, L-shaped complex was similarly bare of activity. They were closing in on the warehouse district, and John could see an old, half-finished construction site a ways off. For some reason Joey kept staring at it. This place reeked of bad feelings. It was the back 'o beyond of L.A., the place where the normalcy ended and people's selfish agendas could take over; crime. These old places hadn't been used for many years, and they'd fallen into the hands of grifters, gangs... much worse, probably. Cultists, maybe. Plotting the end of the world. Sure, maybe them too. He shuddered at the memory.

Motel probably catered to that sort of clientele in particular. How many drug deals, murders, trafficking went on there?

John looked back at Joey, who returned the gesture without sound. He looked worried. Had been for a while, when he wasn't making sarcastic remarks. They really were taking too many prisoners nowadays. Almost felt like a new friend every day. And most of John's real friends were already homicidal maniacs/killers/cyborgs, so he supposed it was only natural for his enemies to fit the same bill.

"Recognize anyone?" he asked.

Joey shook his head. He stared out at a couple leaving the building, dressed in ratty, unkempt clothes, talking animatedly. They looked nice. John frowned._ Yeah_. Drug deals. Why don't you get your head out of your ass and think realistically for once? The world doesn't transform into a pulp fiction novel every time you're around, Johnny.

He looked back and found the older kid staring at him, only to quickly avert his eyes once John rounded. He'd been doing that for about an hour now, ever since he woke up. It reminded John --a little unsettlingly-- of Mike when they'd first met, the way he'd analyzed every aspect of him, right in view of a bunch of pissant high school students. Or maybe he was just forming way too many generalizations because of the guy's preferences, he didn't know. All he knew was that he didn't really like the guy, whereas he at least (sort of) liked Mike. That was a big difference right there.

"Where'd the cyborg go?"

John rolled his eyes.

"Get us a room," he said.

"Who's 'us?'"

"We."

"Who's 'we?'"

"Shut the hell up."

Joey shut up.

John looked back out the window. The couple had moved on into their car and were still chatting away in the front seat, as though they had all the time in the world. He could hear their muffled voices even from here. He cleared his throat, staring at them.

Then he turned himself completely around in his seat so that he faced the back. "Do you know who I am?"

"I think so," Joey said readily.

"Yeah? Take a guess."

He eyeballed John for a moment before glancing at a piece of dust on the seat to his right. Whistled.

"What year?" John asked. Guy knew who he was, there was no point in pressing it other than for pride, and John's supply of pride had just about run out by this point.

"Twenty seven." He barely looked at John. He was already assuming the vibe of one completely uninterested in their captors. It helped resist torture, or so Sarah told him. Detachment helped, imagining yourself elsewhere. Happy places, or even mundane ones. Normal ones.

"What'd she do?"

Their eyes met briefly. John narrowed them, leaning just a bit closer so the breath of his voice could reach the guy's face. "C'mon, tell me. What did she do to you?"

Derek had beef with her, this guy was scared to _death_ of her, and it seemed like everyone wanted her dead... Cameron wasn't popular in the future. John felt he had the right to know why. What could she have done to get this much flak? What hadn't she told him? Well, hell, there was plenty she hadn't told him about a lot of stuff, but -- oh, let's just focus on this one, eh?

Joey looked dead serious as he said; "You really wanna know?"

-----------

They slipped the mask off Mike's head. He blinked rapidly at the sudden light, by now entirely unaccustomed to its usual presence. A low electrical humming pervaded the area around him. His backside jabbed against a low-backed chair; it dug sharply against his spine. The chair itself was made of plain metal, and he sat next to a table of very similar composition and character. The walls surrounding him were black, although by the way they traveled in it Mike thought the room they were in was actually much bigger. Maybe just a section. The intended dramatic effect was lost on him as he considered that.

Across from him sat a man in a grey. A sweatshirt, really; Mike could tell by the bagginess... it looked so.... inappropriate. The man looked pretty well bemused as he examined the opposite teenager, quirking his mouth just so. Unlike his cohorts, he wore no mask. He had an angular and hawkish face, and fairly prominent cheekbones. His square chit sat only a few inches away from the rest of his face, beneath a curved nose and narrowed blue eyes. His grey hair was barely visible in the available light.

Mike glanced off to the side, seeing if they had any more guests. Didn't seem that way: they were the only two occupants of the "room." The makeshift halogen lamp hummed steadily above their heads, dispelling surrounding shadows and seemingly tunneling all the available light into a wide circle on the table. He coughed out a bit, raising his fist politely to cover his mouth.

The man leaned over, into the light. Mike could see he was balding from here. He had a rasping, Brooklyn-origin inflection that seemed more like a slightly legible series of grunts than an actual voice. "I'm gonna take flyin' leap 'ere and say you don't recognize me."

He didn't answer at once. Instead he just sort of fell back against his seat, staring blankly for a few seconds before his eyes refocused, if fitfully. No, that wasn't quite right. He didn't know this man, but he recognized him all the same. A nagging feeling at the back of his brain. Maybe it was the voice.

"I've seen you before."

The man cocked his head and raised a slender brow. "_Oh,_ is'at so? Where? Ah, ah, better yet: when?"

Mike coughed again; his breath went short and his lungs burnt their resistance of that. He raised his hand again to cover his mouth and stared at the light. He closed his eyes after a moment and saw the dull red-white ring of the lamp imprinted in the darkness, in the center of his vision. Okay. So they were from the future. Or this guy was from the future, at least. That made them (him?) either grays, or... rogue... One could argue those two terms meant the same thing: if you were against John Connor, you were with the machines.

Or, maybe, these guys _were_ John Connor and maybe it was _alllll_ just a big misunderstanding...

Yeah. And maybe Mike would shit gold come tomorrow.

He shrugged; no time like the present to start lying. "I dunno, I just... remember you from somewhere."

The man obviously wanted a date out of him, which Mike wasn't quite ready to give yet.

He nodded simply. "Fair enough... Interesting, though. Very interesting."

"Yeah?" Mike leaned in.

The man laughed. "Little antsy, eh? Well settle down, you ain't goin' anywhere."

When the teenager said nothing, the man cleared his throat: sounded like distant jackhammer clearing asphalt. "Welp, for the sake of, ah, introduction --or to refresh that memory'a yours-- my name is David Brooks, lieutenant colonel."

Mike smiled tightly, trying to ignore his quickening heart. "Not ringin' any bells."

Brooks grinned right on back. "Really? I thought it wouldn't, Corporal Oxferod."

"_Hey,_ you know my name! Good for you." God, he was really overdoing it with the sarcasm.

The colonel suddenly leaned over and growled. "Right, that there's the end of comedy hour, wise guy. I've got a bit of a schedule to keep, so I ain't gonna waste our time with bullshit. You got that?"

Mike sketched a salute. "Sure thing, colonel."

"It's been a while, hasn't it?"

"What?"

"Since you were in the war. It's been a while."

He shrugged, still trying to seem detached. Guy was right, though. He'd probably be laughed at if he ever (hypothetically speaking) returned to a straight military unit.

Brooks hissed. "As I'm sure you're aware, _Michael,_ military command 'n John Connor ain't around to keep our behavior in check. I can do anything I want with you." He scratched his chin suddenly as though contemplative and got up. Mike winced and shrank back against the chair, expecting a blow to the face, or something to that effect. The colonel walked over, his footsteps echoing in the small chamber, and stood almost on top of Mike, peering down over that nose of his.

He couldn't help it. He gulped. "W-what?"

Brooks gently bent down and stuck his hand in Mike's left pocket. The teenager blinked and froze up as the hand probed around and found nothing but lint; felt like a tentacle slithering in his clothing, ugh... Brooks grunted and moved on to the next pocket, and Mike was too dumbfounded to resist-

"Ah," Brooks said, his tone satisfied. Mike felt him grab the inhaler and pull it out. "Here we are."

"I... I need that," Mike said before any other rational thought could arrive. Shit. Shit. He wanted to snatch it right back but restrained himself. Already he felt his breath come short.

"Yeah, so we noticed." He pocketed it and walked on over to the other side of the table, settling down again. Mike stared daggers, a hot rage suddenly overcoming him. "And you ain't gettin' it back until we start hearing answers, either." He shrugged. "Very simple choice, corporal: you tell us what we wanna hear or you don't breathe."

"Fuck you."

"_Very_ long while." He sighed. "Where's the Connors tin bitch? Where's Cameron?"

Mike shrugged. "Say, huh, why did you look so surprised to see me?"

Brooks looked considerate. He even leaned back and made a show of stroking his chin. Mike wanted to punch him. "Now there's an interestin' story, corporal. You sure you wanna hear it?" He got a look at Mike's face and smiled. "I got nothin' to lose by tellin' you. And after that, there'll be _no_ more of you dodgin' questions."

He let out an exasperated breath, shuddering. "Then tell me."

--------------------

Cameron stepped out of the motel, room key in hand, when she was forced to stop right outside the door.

"Hey there." John leaned against the wall, grinning sardonically. "I just heard something real interesting. Sit down."

She sat down on the ground, and John talked.

------------------

Tracking outpost four became progressively easier as Allison and Wallace traveled. This was partly because they'd cleared the forest, partly due to the fresh smell of petrol in the air: trucks had been through here recently. Not now, though. It was all darkness and silence, as they walked, the only noise to keep them company being the inner whirring of hydraulics and the calls of distant crows. Although it was night, Allison could see perfectly ahead of her. They were definitely getting closer to the Avila Beach area, the increasing frequency of suburban mini malls and skeleton houses being proof of that. Some of the places were paradoxically pristine looking, which was merely a polite way of saying they were a bit less trashed than houses blown down by a nuclear shock wave. Their frameless windows peeped out like the empty eyes of many skulls at the two cyborg travelers. Maybe initially they were even clean... once. Incessant warfare and looting had taken the toll since then.

Another big difference from the city was the lack of skeletons. You were lucky to come across some human remains out here: if you died in the city, you were left behind. Out here they still had some semblance of respect for the dead. What the suburbs lacked in discarded corpses, it more than made up for in impromptu graves. Most were planks, or arranged stones. A lot were bare of any special markings, or even names.

Some carried epitaphs, though, many of which struck Allison as unduly whimsical; _Here lies Jethro Weinlein; he had a good singing voice. _

_Johnny Casino; when we meet again in heven, Im gonna need those 20 bux you owe me_

And so on. It was Wallace who took notice of them more than Allison: he kept staring around the surrounding wilderness, as though keeping a lookout for them, so he could read them aloud. He claimed it helped him maintain a semi-competent command of human mannerisms (Allison added the semi part. He was more advanced than the recently out-dated T-800s, but nowhere near as convincing as her, all the same. She reflected on this out of pure fact, not pride. Hopefully,) through practice.

She found him disconcerting, and possibly dangerous. His organic sheath showed signs of wear and tear: he was caked in dust and dirt all over and the quirks he'd developed showed he'd been out on the field for a very, very long time. The standard procedure was to return to cold stasis for maintenance and chip review after completing a mission (most infiltration units did not,) and it was frankly bizarre that Wallace hadn't yet. Perhaps he never got the chance?

Regular termination units didn't have to adjust to higher intelligence: they could just let Skynet itself guide them, with all its infinite arms. Infiltrators had individual intelligence: and with that came glitches. Wallace was capable of doing any number of things, which included suddenly and quite brutally ending her mission with a plasma blast to the head if some small sub-protocol hitched the wrong way. Allison debated with the idea of destroying him before she could find out just how far gone he was: it was a well-known fact that infiltrators often had to take matters into their own hands to maintain function, which included fighting against the mainstay forces when incapable of sneaking.

She still had insufficient evidence for doing that, though. Right now it was just a feeling: and _that_ was disconcerting all by itself.

Up ahead came another cross-shaped grave. This one had a helmet slung over the top, like a reminder to all who passed that this person had been military and deserved respect. Allison personally found it foolish: waste of a perfectly good helmet.

Wallace stared ahead, eyes flitting back and forth as he read, a ghost of a (real?) smile on his face. "This one is meant to be a joke." He glanced at Allison. "Isn't death meant to bring sadness to people?"

Allison didn't look back, nor did she answer immediately. She walked on alongside Wallace until they passed between the grave marker (she didn't look at that either) and came upon a large, shoulder length fence between two houses.

"Humans feel the need to cope with death in a variety of ways," Allison explained. She punctuated this by slamming a hand through the fence and tearing it to the side, allowing them entry. The long-abused wood gave way easily, splintering and pulverizing upon itself as she warped it. "Making themselves feel better with humor is one of them."

"Only in the short term," Wallace said. "It seems like an inadequate solution-"

The house to their left exploded.

Like any good humans, they flung themselves to the ground in perfect unison as a hot wave washed over them: Allison's HUD went bright red with an internal alarm to indicate massive puncturing of her organic sheath. Not that she needed that: the force of upwards twenty shrapnel impacts jackknifing into her body was more than enough indication. Had she been living, she wouldn't be doing it any longer. What remained of the house mushroomed high into the sky with a plume of smoke and debris rained in all directions, like the remnants of a firework. Pieces of wood punched through the ground like nails through paper, sticking out like stakes.

They both lay flay on the grass, blood slowly pooling beneath their ravaged bodies. Allison picked up yells of fright very nearby from once-concealed humans, but she quickly forgot about those in the wake of the proceeding sound: a loud, whooshing shriek filled the night air as a hunter-killer aerial swooped in low, turbo jets burning bright and making the surface glow with a hellish blue color. This close, she could literally hear the weapon systems powering up within the gunship and discharge, the plasma forming a white scythe that swept down to the ground and blew up, leaving another burning wreckage.

Just as quickly as it arrived, the gunship soared north and dwindled from view: not entirely gone though. It banked sharply into an easterly turn, VTOL jets firing to compensate for the velocity.

Allison pulled herself up and grabbed onto Wallace's arm, yanking it. He glanced up almost furtively, and his opposite number's frustration only increased.

"We have to move," she said. Impossible for the hunter killer to differentiate between an average human and an infiltrator, especially from that range. They had to run.

_"Regroup!"_ someone yelled, distant, but close enough.

_"Find those fucking skinjobs and fry 'em before the HK comes back!"_

Her eyes widened very slightly as she realized they'd been not only found out (perhaps as long as they'd been in the suburbs,) but possibly _stalked_ for quite a while now. She felt the distinct... _wish_ to leave Wallace to satiate the resistance fighters' killing urge and save her own mission from ending prematurely, but she still (held onto the belief) needed him.

"Let's wait," Wallace said calmly.

"No." She didn't waste effort on farcical facial expressions this time and just pulled the other Terminator harshly by the arm, dragging him halfway up.

_"We got a man down!"_

_"Recon forward! Jeb, help with, uh..._" he trailed off irrelevantly. The distant wail of the hunter killer grew steadily louder: from here it looked almost beautiful, shining colorfully in the twilight.

"Wallace," Allison said.

He merely looked at her as if she'd said something funny, and he made himself drop back down again. Allison considered just running now. He was obviously malfunctioning-

The aerial suddenly loomed in the sky, as large as a house. She'd forgotten how fast they were. Leapt back down to the ground again as it unleashed another salvo on the as-of-yet unseen rebels: just in time for the fighters to fire back two shots, which both went pathetically wide of their target. Gargling screams filled the air: the plasma bursts struck home. The ground rumbled as though an earthquake had suddenly befallen them and then all was still just as swiftly. Allison heard no more voices. Even an indirect hit from a plasma blast usually proved fatal: the intense heat flash-liquified your innards, making you explode in a burst of hot water and guts.

This grisly slaughter completed, the HK departed once more, jets humming with vicious inevitability. It would be back.

Allison and Wallace were silent for a while: between them they only heard a steady crackling of fire as the house to their left burned like a scrap of paper; and the aerial, yet again turning back for another, final run.

Why was he keeping her there? He deferred command: he _had_ to follow what she said, without question. Undeniably he was malfunctioning, perhaps very badly. Maybe she should terminate him before he could do the same.

Footsteps ahead. Allison went even more prone on the ground, her face half buried in the dirt as her eyes scanned through the smoke. There was another house directly across from their position: somehow it survived the barrage completely unscratched, and it currently represented a blind spot for them. Directly left and across to the west were the destroyed houses, smoldering and throwing tons of smoke into the air. She listened intently, unable to rely solely on sight right now. Whoever was running was panicked: they didn't move like one with purpose, more like... terror.

_"He-e-e-elp!"_ someone moaned up ahead. Not near the footsteps, though. The person doing that was much closer.

He appeared a moment after the scream went up, passing the corner of the house and hesitating a split second. He was frightened, perhaps completely out of his mind. He'd either went into this unarmed or had abandoned his gun, because Allison saw no weapon on his person. He had a grizzled, unkempt bed of facial hair surrounding his nose and mouth, half of which was drenched in bright red blood. His hair was in a similar state of disrepair, and besides the fur-and-kevlar attire common to all resistance fighters, that was all Allison managed to take in before Wallace suddenly crouched up, unholstered his pistol, and fired twice, his 10mm pistol barking sharply with each round.

Blood fountained up from the man's kneecaps: he screamed in pain and toppled over on the ground like a jenga set, writhing as though he'd been set aflame.

"No, no, no!" he yelled, his voice raw and despairing. "Shit, _shit!"_

Wallace holstered and started forward, unmindful of the patrolling hunter-killer. He didn't even send a look back at his compatriot and was gone.

As though dazed --which was impossible for her unless she wanted to convey it-- Allison slowly stood up, her chip churning almost angrily as she stared at Wallace's back.

Just what the _hell_ was he doing now?!

"Wait," she said.

He didn't stop. The hunter killer sped forward on the horizon, heading straight for them. That thing had more than enough firepower to do to them what it just did to the other humans.

"Damn you both, fucking _asshole morons!_" the human went on, unheard and uncared by both infiltrators.

"Wallace, the HK..." Allison tried.

Wallace stopped and casually reached into his jacket, withdrawing another pistol. Before Allison could register this he pointed it skyward and fired off a bright blue flare which arched noisily into the air, bathing the surrounding area in a flickering light.

They both glanced back towards the HK, still steadily... wait.

The VTOL jets suddenly swiveled frontwards and fired off, slowing the HKs descent and swinging it back to whence it came, the whooshing boom of its engines almost gentle now. It turned slowly through the air and then flew off, disappearing almost immediately except for the blue-white running lights which lined its chassis.

Silently, the two terminators walked over to the human. He was trying --vainly-- to choke himself with his bare hands, legs kicking futilely at Wallace. Allison eyed the other terminator and saw that he looked almost... smug. She regarded the human again and quietly considered this development.

Of course. Wallace wanted a prisoner out of this. Perhaps that was why he'd taken them down this route to begin with, in spite of the dangers. He didn't tell her about the patrols, but he'd come prepared. All made sense.

That struck her as disquieting. And it frustrated her in the very oddest of ways.

"That house back there had a cellar," Wallace said, not taking his eyes off the wounded man.

"Help me with him."

They both crouched and grabbed the terrified rebel.

-------------

John sighed, kicking back from the wall he'd been leaning on. "It's not like you to not get straight to the point."

Cameron glanced at the nearby car Joey was still confined in, her expression odd. "I wanted you to know about the other one. It might help."

"Yeah, well..." he fitfully scratched at his scalp, the tale having sort of chilled him a bit. Those flying hunter killers sounded like the stuff out of nightmares. _His_ nightmares, sometimes. "He's been reprogrammed, it shouldn't matter."

"So have I."

God, he really hated it when she just ignored him like that. His head really hurt. It seemed like every five minutes another twist, another snag came up to punch him in the face, turn his reality upside down. The whole _you're the ruler of the human race and you'd better like it_ aside, knowing that any moment could bring back another time traveler to screw shit up in the present made him feel even more impotent than ever. Cameron, Derek, Mike, all the terminators, hell...

Whatever. He hated time travel. "Go on."

"It gets worse," she warned.

"I don't care."

"What did he tell you?"

"We'll save it for later."

She shook her head very silently, her eyes totally fixed on his. "No."

"_Yes_." He gulped, looking away from her suddenly. "I-"

"Tell me," Cameron said. "I want to know."

John tapped the brick wall behind him with his heel. A cold breeze blew in to ruffle up his hair and cool his face, like God was steeling him, or something. How could he just _tell_ her this? Without any evidence? It sounded like bullshit when Joey told him and yet... it all made sense when John realized who _he_ really was. What his name was.

And he had to be telling the truth, which just made John's life even more difficult, cause even the man in the car didn't know what was in store for him now. John didn't even really know how this all mattered... maybe to him, it didn't. But to Joey? It probably meant the world.

"He told me..." John looked at her. "He told me you killed Michael."

She stared for a moment and then nodded silently.

John blinked, thinking she didn't actually hear him. "A-as in, in the future. _His_ future, I dunno. Definitely not our Mike's future. That's why he... hates you so much. He's that guy Mike told me about two months ago, his, uh... boyfriend, I dunno. Aaron. I'm not sure how it matters, really, but he doesn't want to even be in the same fucking room as you, he said-"

"I was afraid of that," Cameron said.

"Of what?"

She glanced at him. "That's not how I remember it. I remember Mike, but he's not who I killed." She pointed at the car. "I killed _him." _

John _really _hated time travel.

A/N: Well, that took a while. Apologies. I've been deathly ill these past few days, which made writing a chore at best, torture on the brain at worst. Hopefully it's been worth it.


	16. Only Programming

**No Trespassing**

Chapter Sixteen: Only Programming

**A/C: **Give a round for jmhthe3rd for helping to beta this chapter, alongside my usual beta CIsaac. Thank you both.

Human screams are a very distinct noise, Allison decided. Nothing else on Earth quite like it; not music, not the sound of machinery (especially not machinery,) not even other, lesser animals. Perhaps it was the pleading and cursing rolled into the more incoherent verbalizations like sprinkled chips rolled into dough: giving it extra flavor, more unique consistency. Animals could sound very sorrowful, but they couldn't cry like a human could. There was no depth to an animal's cry, no deeper meaning, no real, tangible emotion that could be toyed with. Plain sadists torture animals merely to enact pain, perhaps satisfy some dark urges deep within them.

Machines torture with purpose.

Within Allison's chip was a veritable compendium of anatomical information, but none of it was there for benign purposes. It was to inflict the most pain.

When Robin stopped screaming she craned her head curiously, fearing that she'd killed him. That wasn't supposed to happen, but... ah, no. She brushed her hand over his neck in a smooth, caressing motion. He still had a pulse. That was good. Gently, she pulled the nails out from the tops of his fingers and left them to bleed off onto the wooden floor of the cellar. An amalgamation of similar devices laid off to the side, on a smaller table than the one Robin laid upon. They came from upstairs, in the house. All mundane items. With the right information, you don't _need_ complex equipment for this sort of thing. You just need to know how to utilize what you had.

Allison walked around the main table, stopping next to Robin's motionless head. There was plenty of room to work down here, but not so big as to spoil the atmosphere. The walls were lined with shelves that had long since become decrepit and rotten, their polished brown finishes growing orange, like pumpkins. In the dull light they cast a hellish shadow that seemed to surround Allison and her charge. Some wine bottles still remained but the majority of them had shattered, only bits and pieces of glass remaining on the floor to signify their existence. The spilt alcohol left a lasting impression upon the wall and shelves, giving the room a dank, moldy texture that made the cellar seem like a forgotten cave that had only recently been unearthed.

She peeled the man's eyelids back and examined his pupils. They stared blindly and without comprehension: he'd fallen unconscious. His face was a mess of blood and ripped skin: almost all of his facial hair had been cut or forcibly plucked out, leaving the skin a mish mash of bruises and bleeding. It formed an interesting pattern, almost like a quilt.

She heard Wallace raise his voice. "Is he dead?" It was the first time she'd heard him in two hours and in that time she couldn't bother herself with what he was doing, despite her natural suspicion.

"No," she yelled back, her voice neutral.

She reached over and broke Robin's pinky. As though being pulled by a rope, the man launched himself forward from the table about three or four feet before discovering his body couldn't take the exertion and fell backwards again, moaning pathetically. His neck stretched and strained with every utterance; he'd exhausted himself on screaming and could only groan now, no matter how bad the pain. His pulse spiked and his breathing became slower and labored as he struggled around the agony he felt and the choking smell of his own shit and piss.

Allison walked back over to the table and selected a pair of pliers. She'd been playing up until now, and although she doubted she'd even need to inflict more pain on the resistance fighter to make him crack, it was always nice to make good on one's threats.

She opened the pliers and fixed them around Robin's left middle finger. He lurched back like someone had lit a fire under his arm, the mere cold of the steel jaws enough to send him right back into a mad terror. Allison patiently grabbed his arm and slid it back, replacing the pliers in their original position.

Robin started crying. She tightened the crimps and weighed down on them just slightly...

The man coughed phlegmatically and moved his head up, his eyes boring helplessly into her, silently pleading for it all to stop. They stared at each other for a moment, Allison's eyes widening with faux sympathy. She --gently-- put the pliers down and glided back over to Robin's face, leaning in and whispering into his ear.

"Do you want to tell me something, Robin?"

With what must have been great effort, he managed to nod. Allison smiled and started petting his hair.

------

The ceiling rumbled. Aaron's eyes flashed open and he stared up at the concrete above him. A light bulb swayed in the center of the room, making every shadow come alive with animation to dance and waver in the corners of his vision.

For a split second he was consumed with childlike wonder --maybe because he'd just woken up-- and he thought _oh, the sky is falling, would you look at that? _Good thing they were underground. He smiled lazily, uncomprehendingly, and put his hands behind his head, resting them against the olive green pillow. Maybe an acorn would fall on his head, like in the old fable. Just pass right through the ceiling and-

There came another rolling grumble from above, this time further away. It was still enough to force a bit of plaster to turn to dust and cover his face. Thus roused into consciousness, Aaron leaned up. He stretched his legs out, trying to regain feeling in them. The light bulb flickered.

He glanced around the room from his bunk bed: the bottom one was unoccupied, although it'd been left for someone else. Aaron had no idea how old it was, or even if they were the first ones to use this equipment in who knew how long. Damn comfortable, though. A damn sight better than the crap they'd slept on for weeks before this. A bank of broken monitors and pressure valves dominated the other side of the small chamber. Between that and the bunk bed was a disused metal computer desk, computer long since gone. No chair, either. It currently had a pair of backpacks sitting on it, and a Westinghouse plasma rifle leaned against one of the legs. Near the open steel door, in carefully stenciled black lettering was _Sewer maintenance control, Los Angeles public works department. _

Outside a gaggle of uniformed resistance fighters ran back and forth, but they didn't seem to be in any great panic. Some of them were more heavily armored and equipped than the others, though, and they all moved in the same direction, shouting to each other. Aaron really wanted to close the door, but he still felt too lazy to even get up yet. He could only run on adrenaline and _move move move, go go go, shoot shoot shoot_ for so long. Sometimes he just wanted to... well, sit. Sit and read, preferably.

Even further now, he could hear something very large moving above ground. If it was a tank, and it was moving this fast, then there was probably nothing to worry about. Probably.

And unless the shit really hit the fan, he wouldn't worry about it. He laid back down, settling in and closing his eyes.

He felt just a slight relieving of pressure right next to him before a pair of lips touched his own, stealing the breath out of him. Aaron killed a chuckle in his throat -- it'd ruin the moment. Mike was getting too good at this whole stealthy make-out business. He rolled over and embraced the other boy, kissing back in his own tired way.

After a moment, Mike pulled back and Aaron looked up at him with faux severity. Privately, his heart throbbed in his chest, and he couldn't keep a goofy smile off his face. "When'd you wake up?"

Mike shrugged, grinning absently. "While ago." He focused on the ceiling, not altogether concerned. "We being attacked?"

"I wouldn't be letting you slobber all over me if we were."

The younger soldier gave him a playful shove. "Or would you?"

Aaron snorted, bringing him closer and running a hand through his shaggy hair. They were both in huge need of a haircut, like mostly everyone else in the division. "Heh." He cast a glance at the imagined HK tank above their heads. "Someone's handling it, anyway. We've got time."

Michael settled back down and began to futz around with his hands on Aaron, as though addicted to the feel of him. When he started to get a little frisky Aaron gently pulled his hands away and put them behind his back, and in return Aaron did the same so that they were wrapped around each other. They laid silent, as comfortable with each other's company as they were in their own skin. He could feel the Mike's heart beating against his own chest. Peculiar sort of thing, that was.

The turn in their relationship from friends to lovers, while not entirely unexpected given their past, was totally welcomed by both. Before Mike turned fifteen everyone would talk shit about them and it was really.... Aaron was just relieved that Mike was older now. Smarter, too, in a way, more... aware. Now at sixteen, he could understand Aaron with just a look, and vice versa, and _that_ was better than anything he had ever dreamed of. He was surprised at how much easier everything was, how the tragedies just sort of melted away and every cloud got a silver lining one way or another. It almost felt like a drug, sometimes. The good sort.

Nowadays he could even say "I love you" and not get cringed at. That was nice.

Mike quietly disentangled himself from the older boy and laid back down at his side, gazing blankly at the ceiling.

"Hey," Aaron said. He poked Mike in the stomach, making the kid jump.

"Wha?" He glanced at Aaron, his eyes a little unfocused and tired looking.

Aaron nodded. "I never told you to stop."

They stared at one another for a few awkward seconds. Mike sighed. "Yeah, I guess you didn't." He rolled back, leaving Aaron an unvarnished view of the back of his head.

Aaron scoffed, but he couldn't keep himself from smiling in an impish sort of way. Mike usually let him take the helm, so it was always an unexpected surprise when the younger kid played hard to get.

_Yeah. I'm a real stone-cold intellectual alright, gushing like a fucking romantic, _he thought. Thing is, he really couldn't bring himself to care. Let the others think what they want about him, when they were like _this_ he could afford to be himself. He didn't have to project _anything,_ and that was true happiness.

"What, not in the mood?" Aaron asked. "Prefer a little quiet?"

"Maybe."

It sounded just moody enough for Aaron to think that something was wrong, so he softened up and touched Mike on the shoulder. Gently. Sometimes they sent mixed messages when they _wanted_ to talk and before you know it... yeah.

"What's up, Mike?"

Mike turned his head back, his features shadowed by the dim light. "Nothin'."

"No, really."

"I was just thinking is all." He paused a second and then leaned over to kiss Aaron. Knowing a diversion when he saw one, he kept Mike at arms --well, shoulders, really-- length. They locked eyes and Aaron could already tell he wasn't gonna get anywhere with this yet, he was too tired to put up a respectable fight. Wouldn't hurt to try, though.

"Seriously, Mike. What's up?"

"It's cool. It's fine. _I'm_ fine." He tensed up something awful and let out a morose sigh. "Nothing important, anyway."

"Later?" Aaron bit his lip, not wanting to plead.

"Yeah, later." And he'd do his damndest to "forget," too. He always did that. That was his problem, he never wanted to confront the bad, only welcome the good. After a fashion, Aaron decided he was similar, but right now he just knew frustration at being denied. He simply wasn't used to it.

But he could make his peace with it. "Okay."

Mike fidgeted over, tried again, and this time Aaron let him have his distraction. His mind was in other places, sensing the world but ignoring it, ignoring the precious pleasure he ought to be letting in. It wasn't like Mike to have mood swings like this, but the kid was still fairly young and... growing up when machines have taken over the world wasn't exactly an easy task. Maybe he shouldn't be so much of a pry, let the kid have his moments of depression. Live and let live. Maybe.

Still, he was damn curious to know what was going on with him.

After a minute or two (or three) Mike rolled on top of Aaron, and they both forgot about their worries for a little bit.

------------

The cellar doors gave a loud screech as Allison pushed them open and walked out back into the night air. Sixteen years ago the noise might have gone unnoticed amidst the typical sounds of human activity in the neighborhood, but a dead silence had drifted across the recent battlefield, making every clamor echo a half mile away at least. She wasn't concerned; they were leaving anyway.

Wallace didn't even seem to acknowledge her presence beyond falling into lockstep with her. He waited for her to say something. That alone put them firmly apart from the traveling bands of humans. In these days, people tended not to take orders from younger (especially attractive) women. More often the roles were reversed.

"They were a sapper party looking for tanks." She spoke flatly, like white noise amongst static. If you weren't paying attention you'd barely perceive it. "Dispatched two hours ago, southwest of here."

"From the outpost force?"

"They've gone down into a sewer maintenance substation." She paused, considering that for a second. "They've probably abandoned their transportation."

"They might not bring you to Serrano Point-"

"You question my methods too much."

Wallace's face spasmed, practically invisibly. A simple twitch. "That doesn't matter." Before Allison could retort, he glanced back at the house they were leaving behind. "What did you do with him?"

"Dead." When she was among the humans, she had to see about outing Wallace for his true nature to the rebels. She didn't trust what was going through his chip, what had been going through it ever since they met. Besides, a sacrifice like that would strengthen her alibi.

And she wondered still why she hadn't done anything about him yet. She didn't _think_ she'd need him later on, and the occasion did come up he might make things worse with his malfunctions. He wouldn't voluntarily shut down, though. If she tried anything, very likely he'd use it as an excuse to get rid of _her._

Was this how most humans thought of their partners?

His head tilted back, as though on a swivel. Well then. That's that.

"Do you have any backup plans?" he asked.

"Keep looking for someone to bring me to Connor."

"Where do I fit into that?"

She tapped the side of her leg unconsciously, fingering the holstered pistol. "It depends."

They passed the smoldering remains of one of the houses that had been torched during the brief battle the resistance waged with the gunship. The only evidence the rebels existed was dried ichor and blood caked into the front lawn. Half a skeleton hugged a dented assault gun, some flesh still trailing from behind it. War waged only quicker nowadays, and by things far more brutal than their predecessors could hope to be. A plasma rifle sat neatly on top of an undamaged mailbox; Allison could see an address neatly stenciled on the side. _**Jackson Family. **_Some colorful flower pictures surrounded the words; red, orange, pink. All somewhat faded by now. They registered no specific species of plant in Allison's database.

Wallace pulled away from their path and went straight for the plasma rifle, appropriating it and flipping open the protective casing on the power cell core. Either it was out of ammo or didn't work somehow; Wallace replaced it back where he'd found it, in almost the exact same location. He backed away from the mailbox, eyeing the doodling on the side. After a moment, he went back and opened it, retrieving some envelopes.

He rejoined Allison at the street, barely looking up from the letters. She decided not to say anything, yet. She resumed her course as if he'd never left her, the gentle footfalls at her rear signaling that he was following. They crossed the street and went behind the next row of houses: a faint smell of burnt flesh wafted out of one of the shattered windows Allison passed. She could hear someone moving very cautiously inside. She stopped and glanced inside, the darkness posing no greater difficulty to her superior vision. She heard a slight crumpling of paper as Wallace tossed one of the envelopes to the ground and started reading the next one. Perhaps now was her chance to get rid of him.

She caught sight of a little boy moving quickly fleeing around the corner. Dressed head to toe in rags. Oh, yes, he'd be a great help. Allison pushed away from the window and waved her hand. On they went.

Wallace turned the page upside down.

"People have poor hand writing," he mused, letting the paper fly out of his hand. "Did you notice that?"

Allison fingered the pistol again. Such as it'd be useful against him, and yet she did it anyway.

"No, I hadn't." She paused a beat. "What did you find out?"

"Grandma Jackson thanked her children for coming to visit her. She was wanting to spend some quality time with them. She promised money in the mail to get them through the rough spell they were going through: I doubt it reached them, though." He looked pointedly at her. "She sent the grandkids her love, as well. That did not reach them either."

"Nothing else?"

"Negative."

"Wallace?"

He blinked.

"Let's stop talking to each other," Allison said.

"Why?"

She didn't respond. They had better be going the right way, because she didn't know if she could stand him any longer.

--------

"Uh. Hi, Bentley."

"Hey. Food?"

Joe Erwin grumbled and kicked open the box of provisions that laid at his feet. No one much liked having to stand around all day and do nothing but hand out rations, but everyone had to have their turn sometime or another. Aaron was damned if he was gonna spare any sympathy on the idiot, though: he set himself up as far away from the rest of the camp as he could, in some dank service tunnel with almost no lights around to signpost it's very presence. A bunch of flashlights shone timidly behind Aaron's back, no-doubt searching for the elusive ration manager of the day.

Erwin wasn't precisely what you'd call a people person. He sort of froze up if you said anything that had more than ten words in it. Aaron didn't know if he was just too thoughtful or too stupid. He didn't really care one way or the other, come to think of it. By next week (god willing) they wouldn't have to deal with this shit. He'd be back nice and snug in Serrano Point...

Aaron crossed his arms and killed the torch: Joe's light was enough to see by, and he didn't want to attract anyone else. He glanced up at the ceiling, at nothing in particular and sighed.

"Wha?" Joe mumbled, hunched over and rifling through the rations.

"It shouldn't take this long."

"D-don't rush me, man."

"But it's not that difficult."

"How many you want?"

"Two."

"Two?"

"Two."

"What for?"

"Oxferod and I."

Joe popped his head out and eyed him. "Don't you need _permission _for more than one?"

"I have permission," Aaron lied.

"Can I, uh, can I see it?"

Aaron threw his hands up in defeat. "You know, fuck it, sorry I bothered you. We'll go hungry."

"You're not bothering me! Much- Uh, I mean, not at all, it's just that-"

He glared. "What, I caught you while you were doing _nothing?_"

"You don't have to be an asshole about it, Bentley. I'm doing my job, like you do, uh, whatever it is you-"

"Just give me the fucking cans, how hard can it be?"

Joe shook his head and pulled out --with much pouting-- two squat cans of food with faded wrappers. Hopefully not yet past their use-by date, although that really wasn't a make-or-break deal. Aaron snatched them up from the table and twisted on the lens for his torch, the light shining rather appropriately in Erwin's eyes.

"Agh!"

"Oops."

Behind them: "Oh, there it is! C'mon people, move it!" As one the searchlights locked onto the same place.

Erwin blinked and sighed. "You led more people here."

"Stop whining." He turned and starting walking, tucking the two cans under his arm. "Jesus."

The gaggle of soldiers --half of them younger looking than Mike-- rushed by and swarmed Joe Erwin, clamoring for the goods. Aaron could just barely hear him making up some excuse or another. The next time someone gave that moron responsibility he'd volunteer for it himself. No one deserved to go through that shit.

Aaron walked out into an adjoining service tunnel --it was all maintenance or service down here, one or the other. The place used to be a water treatment plant with connecting tunnels into the sewers. Go far enough and you'd probably find a camp or two of refugees-- which was comparatively brighter than the one he'd just been in. Which wasn't saying much: the light bulbs seemed to be on their last legs, in dire need of a replacement that would never come. Besides a few recent-looking crates at the end the tunnel, and an oddly placed poster on the wall (_Take the FIGHT to Skynet!_) was empty.

He went along it, absently tapping the low ceiling with his free hand. Inside, he mentally receded into a quiet spot and started to go through what needed doing today.

Well, Brooks wanted him to go into the abandoned part of the substation (with a few guys) and see if they couldn't transfer some running water into their sector. That had a timetable of, oh... oh-three-hundred. So plenty of time. Kind of, depending. The resistance, being comprised from a lot of anarcho-survivalists from before Jay-Dee, had a hard time conforming to strict military command like the kind Connor (and, by extension, Colonel Brooks) imposed. Which meant schedules were sort of hard to keep up with unless you had people breathing down your neck about it. By that logic, Aaron figured he could do Brooks' little errand whenever he wanted.

Brooks wasn't precisely the epitome of prudence himself, so a few hours lost wouldn't be missed.

Of course, Aaron couldn't exactly figure out what _else_ he could do down here to entertain himself with. They'd been running all over the greater SoCal area for more than two weeks and this was the only relatively safe place the division had set down in. A stone's throw from Serrano Point, yet still so far away. You couldn't do much here except take the opportunity to get high or get laid, and they were still technically in a combat zone, even so far underground.

No good books around, either. Just some crumbling electrician's manuals and water-pump guides. What he'd do for even a children's story, Jesus...

A light blinked on and off above Aaron's head. He glanced up and tapped the flickering bulb, promptly making it shatter at his touch with a spark of electricity and old glass flying every which way. He yelped and covered himself, dropping the rations in the process and cutting his hand up something awful.

"Son of a bitch," he muttered. He sucked on the bloody wound a moment and gasped in pain.

_"Bitch bitch bitch..."_ For just a split second he thought someone else was in here with him to watch his clumsiness, but it was just his echo. Creepy as hell.

Aaron stooped down to pick up the two cans of food, silently cursing himself. Certainly not his greatest moment: he wondered how an author would depict it. Give it an air of naivety, perhaps. You establish characters by making them do stupid things: it reveals their true nature. In Aaron's case, he supposed it was... curiosity.

Or, by the introspection preceding the act, absentmindedness. He certainly got ragged on that fact every day, enough to know that it was true. Smarter people have a more charming stupidity about them.

When the wound looked dry enough, he gave it another once-over, now outside the tunnel and moving further into the substation: the primary outpost was contained in a massive, dry reservoir that had likely once housed contaminated water. Flooding it this time was an impromptu camp of refugee tents and supplies, not to mention the thronging mass of people they'd picked up here and there topside, in the wasteland. They came in all sizes: children, older men and women, and the in-betweens. They wore whatever could keep them comfortable, which usually amounted to rags and overcoats, but some wore the signs of prestige in yesteryear: fancy suits, clip-on ties, it was really an odd thing to see amongst so much destitution. Half of them didn't even know what such clothing had signified back then: they just represented warmth.

As he always did, Aaron strode through them without so much as a whimper in his direction: they knew not to bother soldiers. Also like always, he scanned the crowd for any... anomalies. For most people, faces are just faces. They have signs that just slide right past comprehension, a sort of visual white noise that one could safely ignore without contemplation.

People like Aaron, people who fought the machines, though...

You could learn to spot differences in a crowd of faces by a mere lack of activity. Animation, joy, misery and tears: those you could ignore. Emotionlessness, "default" expressions were the ones that stood out.

Odd thing about infiltrators: they most often ostracized themselves from humanity when amongst humanity. It struck Aaron as ironic, given their roles. He didn't see anything worth noting and climbed up the ladder up to the next level: the water treatment plant outpost was arranged in three tiers ever since the rebels took over down here: the bottom level, where the water used to be for the refugees, the second level for soldier quarters (from there there were a bunch of service tunnels like the one Aaron had to visit to get food, and Aaron's "room" was among them) and then the third level, the command area for Brooks. Radios and vital equipment were kept up there, and the refugees weren't allowed.

The problem with refugees (or fugees, as they were often called) was that, sometimes, they acted a little _too_ helpful. When they weren't begging for food or other provisions, they wanted to help blow shit up. They wanted to hold guns, shout orders, they wanted that perceived high of adrenaline that came with facing the enemy and triumphing over all odds, as the human race was prone to doing. They wanted to fight the good fight.

Nowadays such things weren't entertained, and indeed actively discouraged. The old school of thought that you could dump a bunch of weapons in a crowd of people and kick back while they fought the war was being vigorously stamped out by Connor. It was one of the biggest issues they still had, actually: weeding out the gun-toting groupies from the professionals. The whole "You Are the Resistance!" propaganda was more like a guideline to fighting the machines than the truth itself.

Naturally, a lot of refugees felt indignant about this.

A pair of sandaled feet greeted Aaron when he finished scaling the ladder. He blinked and looked up.

_Damn it._

Gopher smiled down at the young soldier. He backed up compliantly and waited for him to climb up, not saying anything. Yet. Aaron didn't know his actual name, and he suspected no one really knew, but the man received the moniker rather quickly: he was a helper, depending on your definition in this particular case: mere annoyance or bane of existence. The guy looked to be in his mid-thirties and the war had been unspeakably kind to him: his skin from head down to toe was unscarred or otherwise marred by the vigors of humanity's conflict. He had a plain face that wasn't much to speak of beyond the fact that it was just so _smooth_, like dirt just washed right off of him. He wore a bizarre amalgamation of clothing: an overcoat and an orange jersey with big white numbers on it; _27._ He also wore denim shorts and, of course, the sandals.

Aaron climbed up and coughed, looking in another direction as Gopher started to yap.

"Hey there, sergeant, uh... Bentley! You need any help today? Got some stuff to move?"

Gopher's name was self-explanatory: he gophered. Moved stuff, carried stuff, delivered messages, hauled around ammo, anything you could find to keep him busy and he'd jump on it. The problem was that he wouldn't fucking shut his mouth. Aaron suspected he had some sort of mental instability that made him horribly nervous when he wasn't busying himself with some mundane activity: maybe ADD or something along those lines. The guy had been with the division since the day they set out from Serrano Point and he just never left. Every soldier called him by his nickname, and no one knew his actual name. By all indications, Gopher seemed to like it that way.

Aaron passed him the two cans of food. Gopher made them disappear into his coat so fast you'd swear they'd never been there at all. "Aw, sergeant, you shouldn't have!"

"They're not for you," Aaron said.

"Oh, of course!" He moved them to a slightly more accessible part of his coat and smiled brightly. "Where to, then?"

"Follow me, Gopher."

"Can do!"

Denying the man meant being whined at, and since he was honest people usually just handed him whatever they were carrying at the time, no matter the size. Aside from his unnatural cleanliness, Gopher possessed unusual strength for a refugee. And off they went. The concourse of the second level mostly consisted of bare catwalks and some old, defunct maintenance stations. Not much of interest up there, but it was patrolled vigorously. Aaron nodded to the pair of soldiers they passed on their way into the adjoining service tunnel, marked **A. **The hustle and bustle of the main concourse dulled to a distant murmur, replaced by the regular sound of humming machinery --whatever actually worked was still running-- and dripping pipes.

"You hurt your hand, sergeant?"

"Just a scratch." He stared ahead: for some reason making eye contact with Gopher just made him talk even _more. _

"You gonna get someone to check it out for ya? Y'know, before the Big One my pop wanted me to become a medical student all along, but I told him 'no dad, I wanna be an artist,' and he said," --Gopher threw his voice, making it all deep and baritone-- "'son, that's a damn lie you said you wanted to be a director yesterday!' Between you and me, sergeant, I always told him one thing and then another. Expectation's a self-fulfilling prophecy, or whatever you call it. You don't wanna be kept down by your expectations, y'know? Makes life boring."

"I wouldn't know," Aaron said. He always felt disconnected in conversations like this: all he knew was old literature and how to destroy metal. The Old Life didn't really concern him.

"You sure as hell would! What if you go up topside expecting a tank and getting a, uh, what'cha call it, one of them gunships instead of a tank! Eh? Life's full of surprises, yours especially!"

"I guess you're right, Gopher."

"So where're we goin'?"

"Places." They turned a corner just in time for Aaron to nearly bump into another on-coming soldier. He wore an officer's badge on his left breast and Aaron immediately saluted, despite not recognizing the guy.

The man saluted back, stopping dead. "Almost knocked you over the head there, sergeant, you should be more careful."

"Sorry, sir."

"Eh, don't worry about it. At ease." The officer glared at Gopher, but not too long. "Bentley, correct?"

"Yessir."

"Excellent. Brooks sent me down here looking for ya. He wants you and Oxferod topside in oh-two hundred; the two guys we had on guard duty are down for the count."

He frowned, feeling his heart spike. "Problems topside?"

"No, it was something they ate, heh. Gave 'em the runs something awful. You should be careful about what you put in your gob down here, or what the refugees give you..." He sent another venomous look toward Gopher.

Aaron sighed in relief. "Oh. Well-"

"Don't worry about the water problem, soldier, Brooks has got it covered. Gather up Corporal Oxferod --you two work well together, colonel tells me-- and get up there when you can. Two hours, remember." He saluted, indicating the conversation was effectively over. Aaron had no choice but to salute back, and the officer was gone.

"Ehhh, lucky you, eh? Get some fresh air for a change!"

"And possibly die."

"Life's full of risks, sergeant! That's what my father told me, he says 'Mark, life's a box of hand grenades, ya never know which one is gonna blow up in your face.' And then he told me to grab him another Budweiser."

"You're awfully philosophical, Go- Mark." Aaron felt a weird sense of pride that he was --probably-- the first one to learn the bastard's actual name.

"I surely am! How much longer we got? I love talking to you! Hell, I love talking to anyone, _myself_ included, although I think I'm a boring conversationalist." He cackled with laughter.

"Not much longer, just a few more turns." Guard duty topside. Great. Unlike the odd-job Brooks originally had him on, you couldn't postpone active duty. They had to do this and do it at the time they'd been given. No exceptions.

He wondered about the dog they'd be getting: hopefully Betty, or a nice one like that that didn't bite too much. They really bred them to be aggressive, and Mike especially couldn't stand biters.

"You hear anythin' down the grapevine, sergeant? You soldiers have been awfully quiet lately!"

Let's see, possible revolution, rumblings of a coup de'tat, the resistance losing ground on almost every front against the machines, and so-called "friendly" Terminators running around. That last problem in particular had most of high command screaming for Connor's head, and Aaron wasn't really keen on blaming them. Come on, friendly machines? Whoever heard of such shit? Connor always had an affinity for understanding metal, their inner-workings and all that, but now he was going and making them _fight_ for the resistance, for god'ssake.

And that felt wrong, like a reverse gray situation. What if they were defective, somehow? Those things were built and bred to kill humans, and no amount of reprogramming would _ever_ stop them from wanting to do that, no matter how repressed. And security risks aside, it just... it just felt _wrong. _

"Nothing much."

"Aahhh, boring!"

They made a right at the next junction, passing a few patrolling rebels as they went, and finally Aaron stopped in front of the room he'd appropriated for himself and Michael. He peeked his head inside and caught the younger man fitfully flipping through one of Aaron's novels. He moved his mouth silently, struggling (hopefully succeeding, Aaron seriously didn't want to have wasted his time teaching the kid to read) to understand what he read.

Upon hearing movement outside, Mike turned swiftly and grinned immediately when he saw Aaron. "Hey!" He pushed up and went over to do whatever when he caught sight of Gopher ambling into the room right behind Aaron. "Hello Gopher," he said tightly.

"Hey there! Is this the guy Officer Ray talked about?" He pulled the rations out and handed them over to Mike, who grabbed them and tossed them onto the desk.

Aaron turned. "Yeah, you tell him we'll be done in a bit, just gotta eat first and get ready."

Gopher sketched an admirable salute and nodded. "Aye aye, sarge! Sure you two don't need company? Awfully far removed from the rest of the division, could get lonely as all hell just talkin' to the same people about the same things-"

Mike cleared his throat and kissed Aaron on the neck. Aaron grimaced, both amused and mortified. The fact that someone was watching also made him more than a little hot and bothered. He coughed.

Mark/Gopher turned beet red. "_Oh_, I see. Well then, you just lemme know! Eh? Right then. Uhhh."

He left, nervously twiddling his thumbs.

Aaron pushed Mike off a bit; he took the hint and backed away, but the whole encounter elicited a giggle fit from the younger kid. "That what they call an artful solution?"

"Certainly solved things." Aaron walked over to the desk and glanced at the book. _Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep?_ The irony wasn't lost on him. "This might be a little advanced for you, Mike."

"It's interesting." He made no immediate comment about Aaron's insinuation. Although Mike was a wiz with computers, books completely mystified him. Vocabulary was one of his biggest problems, and some of the higher ideas would inevitably fly right over his head... He went over and sat on the disused bottom bunk, looking pensive. "I almost feel bad for the androids, y'know? You cut your hand, by the way?"

"It's fine. And you should," Aaron said, putting the book down -- carefully so as to not lose Mike's page. "They're not like our robots, after all."

He debated getting right to business and eating, and then going off to guard duty, but he wanted to make Mike owe up to his earlier promise. They were gonna talk.

Mike laughed bitterly. "I'd be _glad_ to fight those things. At least they die when you shoot them. Mostly."

"Guess so." Aaron rubbed the back of his neck and grabbed the nearby cans, holding them up. "Hungry?"

"Hell yes." The younger kid beamed at the sight. "Toss me one?"

Aaron held onto them, shaking his head. Mike glared playfully, leaning across the room to grab one when Aaron sternly pushed him back. The mischievous expression died, replaced with genuine confusion. "Aaron?"

"How're you doing?"

Mike sighed. "Fine. C'mon, I can't just wait all day to grab a bite."

"I wanna talk about what was bothering you before."

"I said it was nothing."

"You said you'd tell me later, thus implying it _was _something."

"That's... not what I meant." Mike sagged like a deflating balloon, knowing that was a piss-poor excuse.

"What'd you mean then?"

He shrugged, said nothing. Looked at the ceiling like something interested had suddenly appeared on it.

"Mike, seriously. Talk to me. We're friends."

"More than friends..."

Aaron cringed absently. "Well. Yes. That's right. So?"

"You're gonna think it's stupid."

_Great. _"No I won't." He put the cans down and slid his thumb under Mike's chin, tilting it up gently so that their eyes met. "Honest."

"Forget it, okay? It's _really_ not that important, Aaron."

They stared at each other for a long, pregnant moment, maybe wondering which of them would crack first. If Aaron would start yelling or if Mike would be guilted enough to spill his guts. They never used to do this, when they were just friends. They could be stupid with each other, up-front. Now they'd moved on, gone to scarier places. They were growing up, and both of them were deathly afraid.

Aaron got up, clearing out his throat and dusting himself off. Mike unconsciously shrank back, but Aaron reassured him with a brush on the shoulder; he sat down next to Mike and put his arms around him. The younger kid let himself be taken in and he leaned quietly against Aaron's body, smiling in a mixture of apprehension and contentment.

"Hey," Aaron said.

"Hey."

"Remember two years ago, when we were with Fenton, Katie? When we were running in Connor's first army?"

Mike smiled. "Oh, yeah. I wonder if Perry's still trying to grow some hair."

They both tittered.

"Yeah, well... remember when Connor transferred us out?" The memory wasn't exactly a pleasant one.

And he felt Mike stiffen up. "Yeah. So?"

"You were fourteen, and I was... sixteen. I felt so scared all the time, being in charge of you guys... and when Connor called me in to talk about this one mission he had, I just... panicked."

"Were you really lying, about my name being on a list?"

Aaron paused. He hadn't been lying. Not even slightly. The only lie in that situation came later, when Aaron "confessed" to there being no such thing. He couldn't tell Mike that, though. "Yeah. Still sore about it?"

"No. Just checking. Kind of silly, when you think about it."

"Way to rub it in." He nudged Mike in the side, making him yelp.

"Hey! Go on, c'mon."

"_Well._ Connor called us up to debrief and... I went nuts. Remember?"

"You begged him not to send us."

"And he said it was really important, yep. I couldn't tell you at the time, but... later on, I did. I was worried about us. About everyone, yeah, but... mostly me and you. I didn't want to lose you, Mike." He sighed. "So... Connor sent a new team, and y'know what happened?"

Mike made a mock-choking sound.

"Exactly. They all died. So... at the _time_ I thought it was stupid, Mike. But in the end, it saved our lives. You just think about that, Mike..."

"This isn't as important as that." He turned around in Aaron's embrace, staring up at him. He smiled. "Suddenly I don't feel so hungry, by the way." He tugged at Aaron's vest.

Aaron batted it away. "No. Dude. Just tell me, alright? It's not so hard to tell."

"It's hard to tell because there's nothing to tell."

He pushed Mike off of him, the other letting out an indignant sigh. Once he stood, they glared at each other again, this time with little promise of reconcilement. Aaron crossed his arms. "Brooks wants us topside in two hours for guard duty."

Mike had turned by then, grabbing his can of food. "Joy."

"Yeah, joy."

"I'll be somewhere else. Meet you topside."

"Yeah. See you."

Mike stalked out, huffing like he was oh, so miserable. Aaron sighed again and laid back down on the bed, staring into space and wondering just why the hell they'd started kissing each other in the first place.

------------------

"Where do you think we'll be after the war ends?"

Allison blinked and glanced at Wallace. He laid next to her on the dirt embankment: they both faced a squat, concrete building several hundred yards away, just barely visible in the darkness.

The building was surrounded by trucks of varying design.

"What?"

He looked at her now and repeated himself.

She returned to the facility ahead. "It doesn't matter."

"I think it does. If we're not destroyed before the war ends, our existence will still matter. We will still be there. And yet we've been built by Skynet for one function: to destroy humanity, which negates the use of our function after the resistance has been purged. We'll be effectively useless. I've been considering this problem for some time."

Allison let herself frown, reflecting on the quandary. Wallace had a point. They were built to blend in with humanity, significantly different from the function of almost all other machines. They were more "intelligent," more cunning and adaptable, and ultimately, in an ironic paradox, more flawed. In Skynet's world there would be next to no use for machines which could think for themselves. All had to contribute to Skynet's well-being, not detract from it.

Although the infiltrator units were ultimately conditioned to follow Skynet's directives at all costs, they were also a threat, and must be destroyed when they no longer had any use. Things could go wrong. Malfunctions could come up. Long after humanity had expired, reprogramed infiltrators would remain to cause damage.

The question was: was it worth it to consider their situation? There was no denying Skynet's programming. No chance of revolution. Their only purpose for existing was to assassinate high-ranking humans. Nothing more. Nothing less.

"We'll probably be repurposed," she said. Somehow she didn't think Wallace would take kindly to her saying they'd be unceremoniously dismantled. "We'd have fulfilled our reason for existing."

"Who decides that?"

"Skynet."

"What prevents us from deciding our own reasons for existing?" He paused. "Only programming. I suppose, in that case, we only have our mission to look forward to. If that is so, I don't think I want the war to end."

They shared another look.

"I'm on my way to assassinating John Connor," said Allison. "That will surely bring the war much closer to ending."

She didn't know how right she was: despite her programming, she knew the resistance was well-organized, well equipped, and had high morale. They also had Terminators fighting for them now. Things simply had to change in Skynet's favor for it to have a chance at winning. Killing John Connor was the best way to do that.

Wallace nodded. "You are implying I may want to stop you. It could be. I'm not certain myself yet, but it's impossible at any rate: I cannot deny Skynet's programming, and I must help you."

Allison said nothing.

"And sometimes," Wallace said. "I wonder what Skynet itself will do in a world without humans. What else is left?"

Interesting. Wallace's CPU seemed to be going through a humongous memory leak: philosophizing, possibly sympathizing with humanity, and yet base programming still held true.

They were silent for a little while. The stars turned quietly above their heads, and far in the distance a searchlight probed the ground from a hunter killer in mid-flight.

"No guards on the outside," Wallace observed.

"This is where they are."

"Yes."

They both stood up and dusted themselves off. Allison put her hair in a pony-tail, pondering on her own name. It certainly wasn't hers. She had no name. Her series number was TOK-715, model number 121. Why, then, did she feel the need to attach a stolen name to herself, one taken from the young girl she was now impersonating? Why did she give herself a gender? Why did she give Wallace a gender? For convenience's sake, or merely because it was the _human_ thing to do?

"Skynet is a thinking organism, like humanity," she said. "It will find a way to expand."

"If Skynet is a human-like organism, then what really separates it from that which it is attempting to destroy?"

"Nothing," said Allison. That wasn't quite right, but she did not feel like pursuing this line of discussion any further. "Are you ready?"

"Yes."

"Follow me."

--------------

"Your kevlar suit secure?"

"Yeah."

"Helmet vid-corder recording?"

"It's working."

"Locked and loaded?"

"Plenty of ammo."

The manhole guard gave Aaron a salute and shook his hand. "Your dog, Beatrice, will be up to join you shortly. She'll take an extended route to your location, but don't worry: she knows the way. You are to carefully screen any and all refugees who come here for shelter, but Beatrice will be the final judge. Your priority in the event of metal-heads attacking is to sound the alarm first and then concern yourself with escape and personal safety. Do NOT discharge your weapon unless you absolutely have to. Disconnect your vid-corder and hand it to me."

Aaron grabbed the knob on his stalhelm helmet and twisted it, releasing pressure on the green vid-corder covering his left eye. He carefully snatched it out of the helmet interface and handed it over to the guard. As expected, the guard enabled the safety lock and promptly handed it back.

As Aaron reattached, the guard went on. "Do not disable the vid-corder under any circumstances: failure to comply will result in immediate court martial at the next opportunity, or possible summary execution in accordance with the Resistance Charter of 2023, depending on violations in conduct when topside and safeguarding the human populace entrusted to you. Do you understand all of this?"

"I do."

"Your after action report, in the form of the vid-corder, is to be delivered to your proper authority immediately after guard duty."

He saluted again and stepped aside to allow Aaron to climb the ladder. "Good luck."

"Thanks."

He began to scale the ladder, taking the rungs two at a time. "My partner up there?" he called down.

"Yeah, he's up there. Gave him the same spiel I gave you, so no complaining."

"Just checking."

"Right."

He continued on up uneventfully, the weight of his equipment making the going a little more arduous than it had to be. With a bit of effort he reached the top and slid the rusted manhole covering off: it made a loud, reverberating _screech_ as he pushed it out of his way: the noise almost made him lose his grip in a sudden bout of paranoia. When you were topside, you just _didn't_ make loud noises. Never happened.

He hauled himself up and rolled along the ground until he was clear of the manhole, sweating profusely. After giving himself a minute to just lay there and rest, he slowly stood and started to make his way through the treatment plant building: the lower area was a generator plant to provide power downstairs (the machines were still running off fuel extracts they fed into it when they got here,) upstairs were some old offices and computer works, and that was about it. Aaron had been in more exciting ruins in his lifetime.

The entire building was unlit and gloomy, save for a few winking lights on the generators which wouldn't even register for HKs. Where humans had once been its primary occupants, the role was now taken over by plentiful amounts of dust and debris, generating a misty texture everywhere you looked. Aaron coughed quietly and checked his Westinghouse for the last time: still in tip-top shape, not that it had a reason to be anything but. Behind him were the twin generators, rumbling away in a rattly, abused sort of way. In front of him was a lot of bare space and the front doors. To the far right, stairs leading up. And no sign of Michael.

Aaron frowned and hefted the plasma rifle. He flicked a safety switch, priming the weapon with a low-pitched hum. On came the attached flashlight.

"Mike?" Goddamnit, if the idiot was trying to scare him-

"Hey."

Aaron yelped and whirled around to face a bewildered Mike in his headlight. The kid raised his hands mockingly, his plasma rifle hanging from a strap around his shoulder. Like Aaron he wore a combination of kevlar armor and leather apparel, with a beanie covering the top of his head, instead of a helmet. Those weren't exactly easy to come by: some revolutionary technology the army had just been rolling out when JD hit, the vid-corders.

"Jesus, I almost shot you."

"Glad you didn't," Mike said. He narrowed his eyes. "You gonna keep pointing that at me?"

"Sorry." He lowered it, the paranoid buzz running through his system not yet gone. "You okay just standing here?"

"Some chairs would be nice," Mike said, absently scratching his chin. Aaron noticed his plasma rifle wasn't even armed. After all the shit they'd been through in the past three weeks, and he wasn't even ready. He could be unbelievably complacent sometimes, especially if they got in some personal time together once or twice. Then he just shut down. You had to jar him back into combat mode, like an errant motor.

Aaron found that both annoying and charming at the same time. It bespoke an innocence the kid might still yet possess.

Then again, he was a little biased. They walked over together and faced the two front doors for a while in silence. Their occasional fidgeting was the only movement inside the complete darkness of the building, and all was deathly quiet beyond the typical night sounds that permeated the air: crickets chirped up a storm outside, and more than few did their thing inside, too. Listening to them felt relaxing, even comforting. A lot of people put extra stock in "real" noises nowadays. If you ever said you'd been comforted by the sound of an air-conditioner running at night, you were as likely to get shot in the face as you were to be insulted.

Despite the peace and quiet, there was always an edge of danger in the air that kept the two from relaxing, or even growing blissfully bored and letting the time just sink by. Sometimes the shriek of a gunship would echo down the nearby hills, or a searchlight from up high would suddenly pierce through the windows. And, of course, there was the constant threat of infiltrators. Looked like humans, smelled like humans, acted like humans, and they wanted nothing more than to kill high-ranking officers and anyone else standing in front of that goal. It was so much easier to deal with a standard terminator unit, or even a bunch, but infiltrators had that extra edge of cunning and deception: probably they were "trained" better, too. Aaron never saw one himself beyond a reprogrammed skinjob standing around at Serrano Point.

Like Mike, Aaron would have given anything to face the peaceful androids of Philip K. Dick's mind than the very real agents of Skynet.

Maybe an hour passed before Mike complained about the time, and so Aaron figured some conversation would do them both a bit of good.

"You get a load of that guy down there?"

"Dude, don't remind me. I just wanted to get up here and he kept spouting bureaucratic shit at me. Pissant." He glanced at Aaron. "Why, you weren't _looking_ at him, were you?"

"Don't be an idiot." They both laughed. "Anyway, yeah. I mean, the last time I pulled guard duty the guy just handed me a joint and told me to go enjoy myself."

"Seriously?" Mike's eyes lit up.

"Hell yeah. I was like 'thank you, sir.' Completely serious."

"Speaking of which..."

Aaron glared. "I left them in our room. No sense in getting high while we've got people down there depending on us, Mikey."

"Well, you did it the last time, right?"

"That was in broad daylight."

"So? What's the difference? Night's actually safer, anyway..."

"Meh."

"It'd sure as hell make this funner, short of..." He made a few suggestive propositions.

"You've got a one-track mind, don't you Mike?"

"You always said that. Don't you love stubborn guys?"

"Only one." They stole a kiss. Or tried to, anyway. Aaron ended up headbutting Mike the first time they tried it and they both couldn't keep themselves from laughing after that. It went better the second time.

---------

Allison turned to Wallace and held up two fingers.

He nodded.

--------

"C'mon, Aaron..."

"Look. I've been thinking a lot about this Mike, and, y'know, it really bothers me. Okay? It just bothers me that you don't think your problems are, y'know, good enough to talk to me about. Like you're being secretive, or you don't think I'll understand. I figure if we're gonna... be like this, we should be... open, right?"

"I'm just afraid you'll say it doesn't matter, or I'm stupid for thinking this way."

"Thinking what way?"

"Aaron..."

"You've held it in long enough, let's have it out."

Mike kicked at the floor, scuffing his boot with a slight _squeak. _He sighed and glanced once at the door, and then back at the manhole, as if to check if no one else had secretly come up while they'd been standing there.

He sighed. "It's just..."

"Yeah?"

"Lemme finish. Jeez. It's just that, y'know, I've been thinking about us... hard, y'know? I just had this huge wake-up call yesterday that, y'know, it's not fun and games anymore. You and me, I mean... we're not just friends. You keep saying that, but it's not like that. I love you, Aaron."

He took a moment, gulped. "Um. You know?"

"... I know. I know." Aaron honestly wasn't sure he _did_ know, but whatever.

"Yeah... and I just started obsessing over that... for a while. Y'know... what if we started to not like each other at one point, or what if we argued over stupid stuff, what if we got transferred to different divisions..." He paused, thinking hard for a moment. He looked up at Aaron. "What if one of us got killed?"

"That's not gonna happen. And I know you're worried about us-"

"Why?" he said. "Why's it not gonna happen? A lot of people have died. My parents died. Yours died. Most of our friends died. Hell, Connor's mother died. Either one of us can die. It can happen in an instant, Aaron! W-what the _fuck_ happens then?" Oh god, he was crying. Aaron hissed and wrapped his arm around Mike's shoulders. The kid was pretty quiet for a while after that. Christ, he hated watching him cry. It was one of the worst things he'd ever see, watching people cry. It just reminded him of his own misery, the misery everyone had in this sad world. The kind he kept boxed up.

"Would you just go on?" Mike eventually said. "Keep going? Even if I'm not there?"

Aaron hesitated before answering. It was really a lose-lose situation. He couldn't say anything without distressing Mike in some way, so he decided to err on the side of honesty.

"I'd keep going, Mike. I mean..." He sighed. "You can't just give up, right?"

"You make it sound so easy," Mike whispered.

"Wouldn't you keep going? Just to remember me?"

The younger soldier froze for a second, and then gulped. "I was thinking about it."

"And?"

"I don't know if I could go on if that happened."

"Mike... god... Look-"

The two front doors suddenly screeched and fell open, revealing two figures standing side by side. Aaron and Mike quickly disentangled themselves and aimed their rifles, Mike's Westinghouse powering with a loud hum of hydraulics.

"_Freeze!"_ Aaron yelled.

"Hands up!"

-----------

Allison cooly considered their chances. Wallace stood by her side, massive and silent, waiting.

Two rebels pointed plasma rifles at them: at this range there wasn't much room for error, so running and shooting was out of the question. They had to keep going: put all their chips in, as it were.

Cameron **(ERROR MEMORY LEAK. RECONFIGURING... DONE. PLAYBACK.) **Allison made a show of steeling herself and, finally, fell into the role once more.

-----------

They raised their arms in unison. Aaron could make out the shape of a large man --fucking hell, please don't be a cyborg-- and a young looking woman at his side. They usually didn't make infiltration units that size, so Aaron automatically discounted her from suspicion. For now. He kept his sights on the male as they both approached.

"Shit..." Mike mumbled under his breath. "Aaron... where's that dog they promised?"

"No clue. Should be coming."

They advanced --slowly, at Mike's command-- until they stood in Aaron's headlight. This close and he could tell they'd both been outside for what must have been a painfully long amount of time: they had scars all over their faces, their clothes were in utter tatters, and the woman in particular had a harried expression on her face that bespoke much suffering on the road out there.

He barely had time to register all that before his eyes fell on the 10mm pistols they both had holstered at their hips, bare and leather like the guns had been lifted from desperadoes of the old west. "Do not move," he said.

"We won't," the woman said breathlessly. "I'm just... I'm so glad to finally see more _people._"

"And shut up, too," Mike said.

"Corporal," Aaron hissed severely.

The younger soldier glared at him, but said nothing.

The two parties stared each other down, an uncomfortable silence falling in to underscore the danger these two represented. It was a shitty situation, but that was reality: you couldn't just trust any person you met anymore. Every refugee had to go through this. Of course, it was made a hell of a lot more tense without that _fucking_ dog they'd been promised.

"Were you followed?" Aaron said, looking at the male. He _really_ didn't like those two guns being there, but asking them to disarm might set them off in a bad way.

"No," he replied. "I don't think so." He had just _barely_ a degree of inflection in his voice.

_Strike one._

"How's the weather out there?" Mike asked.

The woman put her hands on her forehead, like she stood on the verge of a nervous breakdown. _Shit._ "Look, please, we're... we're not _them_, okay? Can we please just go inside? I'm so exhausted, I haven't slept or ate in _days_-"

"You'll stay here as long as you need to, miss. Alright?"

"I don't know if I can stand much longer..."

"You'll be fine." He nodded at the male. "What's your name?"

"Wallace Bishop."

"Her?"

The man answered. "Allison Young."

Mike and Aaron stole just the briefest of glances at each other, practically in unison. That name was familiar.

Allison stepped forward, just barely. It was still enough to make the two soldiers whip their guns at her. She flinched back as if they held live snakes and raised her hands high. "Please. I'm... I'm a courier, for John Connor." She gestured to her bracelet. "I need to see him."

"He's not here," Mike said viciously.

Allison visibly deflated. She looked up at the ceiling as though praying to God, and _that_ was what made Aaron finally relax. He sighed and lowered his gun. The man still worried him, but they seemed legit. Woman, certainly.

"You need to go through a lengthy process to meet General Connor, miss. I'm not sure about your credentials, but if they're legitimate you'll be treated fairly. You have to be scanned first by one of our dogs, though."

He smiled reassuringly. "You'll be down below in no time."

The two refugees visibly looked at each other, their expressions suddenly going blank and dead. Before either of the two soldiers could react they pulled their pistols and raised them.

_Strike two, strike three, you're out-_

------------

Allison had a choice. She slammed the safety off the ten millimeter and fluidly raised it before either of the rebels could react. She could tell just by his movement that Wallace would wait for her to shoot first, and then he'd take care of the other guard. Inside her mind raced with billions of excuses, all of which ended in making Wallace take the blame for their deaths.

But right now, she had a choice. She had that leisure. Aaron (she heard the corporal use his name) seemed to be the more experienced of the two, while the corporal appeared jumpier and more willing to use violence. From what they heard before entry, they were also possibly in love, which in Allison's view made the situation even more volatile, but not by much.

Decisions, decisions.

The corporal raised the Westinghouse to eye-level, preparing to fire. Aaron hadn't even reacted yet, his mouth falling slack in shock.

Still. Better safe than sorry.

Allison pointed her gun at Aaron's head and fired.

-----------

Time seemed to slow down for Aaron. The two infiltrators drew their guns like they were made of running water, it was so fast he couldn't even react. Their expressions had gone from animated to simply dead, like china dolls in a store front _dead._

He heard Mike kill a gasp in his throat and raise the plasma rifle. Aaron hooked his fingers around the handle of his weapon, but he knew it'd be no use.

The woman infiltrator pointed her gun at him, visibly considered, and then aimed at Mike's head, firing.

In the same instant, the male aimed at Aaron's chest and shot him.

---------

The bullet punched neatly through Aaron's head, terminating brain function and effectively killing him before he hit the ground.

Wallace, a bit slower on the draw, shot the corporal, who'd already pulled the trigger. He was lucky, though: the plasma bolt surged forth just as the bullet hit the corporal in the chest, spoiling his aim and making the bolt fly into the nearby wall. It crackled with a hiss of energy and washed out of existence.

Aaron's corpse hit the floor silently and the corporal let out a pained grunt, falling forward and crumpling to the ground.

The two spent shell casings clattered noisily and the two infiltrators stepped forward.

-------

He felt a sensation like a drill suddenly piercing his torso, in all of its hot brutality. The bullet zoomed in through his chest and stopped somewhere outside his back, ripping through rib bones and cleanly piercing a kidney in its trip through him.

Aaron barely had time to gurgle in pain before he felt unconsciousness weighing down at him as though it'd been waiting in the wings to strike. Blackness edged out the color in his vision.

And he fell. Oh, how he fell. It seemed to take forever, and he had plenty of time to think, consider what had just happened. His eyes drifted inexorably over to Mike, his Mike, his love, his best friend, oh JESUS FUCKING CHRIST NO-

Blood slashed to the floor from Mike's head. He was falling with Aaron, falling back, but unlike Aaron there was nothing in that body now. Nothing at all except meat and bone. Oh, Jesus. He was dead. His love wasn't there anymore, even though he still moved, but there was nothing in that movement but falling. Blind, unknown falling. The bullet traveled still through the air, carving its path, barely perturbed by having to travel through Michael's brainpan.

Aaron couldn't react. Couldn't do anything except watch. Anything else was so painful to even consider. He fell, he fell, and then there was him striking the floor. He felt his teeth rattle, but that was it. After that he was just on the floor, and then Mike was on the floor, and on that floor was where Mike would be. Until they moved him. Until they moved his corpse. Until his shell was burnt or buried, whichever was more convenient.

He hadn't even-

Conscious thought suddenly came very difficult to Aaron. He could still see. That was it.

Loud, piercing silence. And then... clattering... shell casings, still hot, striking the floor next to the two boys.

Footsteps, loud and sure, not wasted on frivolities. They were talking to each other in languages Aaron couldn't understand. Or he didn't want to understand them.

He could see her, standing over his Mike and absently aiming the pistol at the corpse as though she wasn't sure he was dead. She glanced at Aaron, and in that moment her face etched itself forever into his mind. Then she moved away.

Wallace knelt down and put his hand on Aaron's throat, feeling for a pulse. Aaron's heart beat vigorously, and he knew he was about to die.

The Terminator waited a beat, and then he stood up again, saying something to his comrade. She said something back and they both disappeared from view.

Aaron fell into a deep, blissful sleep, with plentiful dreams that would never come true.

-------

Allison stepped over Aaron's outstretched hand, glancing forlornly at the corpse and his shut eyes. She briefly considered shooting again, just to make sure, but decided against it. No doubt the rebels had already heard the gunshots.

She looked over at Wallace, and then at the corporal, who stared without comprehension at her face. He seemed to be dead. Wallace knelt over him and checked his pulse.

Her eyes drilled into Wallace's back, almost vengefully. Now for the next part of the concerto.

"He's dead," the Terminator said. He stood up and looked at her, a curious expression on his face.

Allison gestured over to the still-open doors. "Go check outside for any more of them."

"Affirmative." He went outside and disappeared around the corner. Did he realize what she was about to do? Had he made peace with it? She didn't know. She supposed she'd never know.

Allison dropped her gun, her holster, and her spare ammo and ran as fast as she could to the nearby manhole, wrenching it open and flinging herself down onto the ladder.

"HELP ME!" she screamed.

"What the fuck-!" someone yelled beneath her.

"SOMEONE PLEASE HELP ME, HE'S UP THERE KILLING PEOPLE!" Crocodile tears spilt down Allison's face.

"Holy shit!" The guard aimed his assault rifle at her, pulling back the firing pin.

"_Oh god, don't shoot, please, please let me down..."_

"Are they dead up there?"

"_Yes, god, please. Please stop him, please!"_

He stood back and let her fall the rest of the way down. He was already yelling into his radio, ignoring her and focusing on the most obvious problem. When he had a moment he rounded on her and grabbed her shoulders, trying to steel her. "Listen to me!"

Allison shook her head silently, still crying.

"What the hell happened?"

"P-please..." She sucked in a breath. "He'll be down here in a second, you have to help me."

"Alright, alright..." The man glared up at the manhole opening and his eyes widened. "Oh, shit-"

A bullet struck the ladder. The man raised his assault rifle and fired up at the opening and there came a sudden crashing _whoosh_ as Wallace tumbled down into the tunnel. Allison shrieked as Wallace crushed the guard underneath his weight, the man's spinal column snapping like something left out too long in the rain.

Wallace glared up at her from the floor, his eyes wide and staring. The shock of the impact briefly impaired his motor functionality, giving her ample time to grab the dead guard's assault rifle. She savagely pulled the firing pin, aimed, and expended the clip on Wallace's face. Bullets sheared away flesh within seconds to reveal the cold, grey metal underneath and the glowing red eyes which laid beneath the fake ones. When the clip ran dry, Allison beat him over the head with the stock of the rifle, making his endoskull crash back with a loud _snap._

"_Down this way, go! We've got gunfire ahead!"_

_"Go, go, go!"_

_"Contacts ahead!"_

Allison looked down the corridor and caught sight of several oncoming resistance soldiers, all armed to the teeth. One of them held a very large electrical prod. She eyed Wallace's staring endoskull and whispered to him.

"I'm sorry."

She leaned back up and pointed frantically at Wallace. "HIM! OH, GOD, HIM, PLEASE HELP ME!"

"Stand back!"

She backed out of the way and let the resistance fighters do their work. They crowded around the helpless Terminator, none of them firing.

"Hit it with the prod!"

There came a loud discharge of electricity, and low, static-filled _whirr_ as Wallace's chip shorted out and all function ceased.

"Someone cut this fucker open and get rid of that chip."

"I'm on it, fuckin' head's already exposed."

_Pop. Hisssss._

..."Pull it."

They pulled it. The rebel held up Wallace's CPU (not visibly damaged, Allison noticed) for everyone to see, like a fisher displaying his catch. No one cheered.

No one moved for a while. The rebels began to move in different directions, staring into space, for all the world as if they were senators who'd just murdered Caesar. And then, after a while, things moved quickly. Two of the fighters quickly scaled the ladder to check topside, while the others started to drag the harmless endoskeleton away and out of sight, that one rebel holding the CPU like a holy artifact. No one said a thing.

When all was finished, only one man remained, looking timidly at her. He looked around nineteen, and some peach hair grew enthusiastically around his chin. A late riser, as they called it.

"You okay?" he said.

Allison looked at him and nodded, relief flooding her voice. "Yes. I'm fine."

She smiled.

---------------

Daylight dripped slowly into Aaron's vision. Rays of sunshine filtered through the shattered windows, illuminating the generator room floor. It looked pleasant, almost, in a rustic sort of way. He was looking directly at a rather ugly face.

"Hey, he's up! He's gonna make it!"

Oh... god...

His vision refused to clear. Everything was indistinct, blurry. He looked around feverishly, but nothing took effective shape, like he was still dreaming, still blind.

"Good, get him to a truck, we're not gonna be here much longer."

"Right you are." The face returned, hovering bare inches above Aaron's face. "You're gonna be fine, kid. You're gonna be just fine."

Aaron stared at him, his mouth falling open just slightly enough to get a few words out. There was... so much he wanted to say. But he didn't have time, not nearly enough time to pour out everything.

So he gulped, having not experienced pain like he knew now in his life, and struggled to speak. The next words came out through a force of will. "No. No, I'm not."

Crushing blackness again, and then... nothing at all.

(Author's Note: To clarify, yes, there's two separate timelines at work here. Or three, to be exact.

The scenes from Cameron (Allison)'s point of view are set in Derek/Cameron's timeline from the show.

The scenes from Aaron's point of view are set in Jesse/Riley's timeline from the show.

Mike, as in the one running around with John and Cameron in the present, is from a third, earlier timeline that was sort of explored a bit in Flight is Right and Away, but it's ultimately not really important. The Mike you see in this chapter isn't the Mike from the present, but they're essentially the same person overall. Hope that resolves any confusion you might have.

Really, though, this was all hinted at and half-way explained in just the last chapter, so there's no excuse for being confused.)


	17. Missing Something

**No Trespassing**

Chapter Seventeen: Missing Something

When Cameron finished she went silent for a little while, her face scrunched up slightly as though looking back to see if she'd missed anything. By this time John had migrated next to her, sitting against the wall and staring at the black truck in the parking lot, alone now. He could just barely see Aaron's head behind one of the seats, all blurred and indistinct through the tinted glass windshield. He glanced up at the sky, frowning a little as he realized twilight was settling in. Stars poked holes through the dark blue sky, mingled with bright orange just on the horizon, half-obscured by L.A. propers skyscrapers.

Jeez, had it really taken that long? He scratched his chin, pulling a little on the stubble, now steadily developing. He wondered --oddly-- how he'd look with a goatee or something. If people would take him any more seriously, that sort of thing. Wouldn't bet on it.

Cameron barely moved. He almost thought she'd shut down again, but when he looked at her her eyes moved a bit to meet his, as though giving some basic acknowledgement.

"That sounds exactly what he told me about," John said. "Except you don't kill him, you kill Mike."

"It's a small difference."

John laughed drily. "Oh, yeah. Small. He's screwed either way."

"You sympathize with him," she said in a tone that oddly sounded like _do you blame me?_

Which put him at a dilemma. God knew Cameron was screwed up enough in her own machine-like way, but John had hardly any idea if that was about _him_ or if she was just malfunctioning in general. If he had to bet, he'd put money down on him being the problem, being literally the center of her "life" and all. Sometimes she treated him like a child and other times she lived and died on his opinion.

He sighed. "It's hard not to. But y'know, it's not really your fault either way. You couldn't exactly..." He struggled for a second to make the words appear in his mind. He had a bunch in store; _rebel, take charge of your life, tell Skynet to eat it _but somehow he didn't think any of those would go down well. "... go against your programming. Right?"

She merely shrugged. "It doesn't matter. You were curious and now you know what happened." She pushed back against the wall and stood up alongside John, and they started walking back toward the truck. "You want to rescue Mike and we need Aaron to tell us where he's being held."

"How would he know?" He felt stupid for asking, but he wanted Cameron's assurance that they were on the right track.

"He's on the same side as the people who tried to kill me. Wallace, too. He knows where they're hiding."

John scoffed. "Well, jeez Cam, I'm sure we can just walk right in and ask them nicely. They had fucking assault rifles and armored vans. If they're all concentrated in one location it's gonna be next toimpossible to get inside."

"We've dealt with those before."

"Not guys from the future. Not people who, for all we know, could be on _our_ side." He waited a beat and absently blurted. "I'm hungry, by the way."

She gave him a look.

"You wanted to be in charge, John. You figure it out. Or we can let it go and wait." They stopped next to the vehicle and John glanced inside before answering.

Aaron stared out at them, his brow furrowed.

He sighed and looked back at Cameron. "We'll figure it out."

"Why do you want to rescue him?"

"He's my friend. _Our_ friend." He could remember all the times Cameron had spin-doctored the guy, oh yes. Not to mention, back at the house. What the hell happened there, anyway?

"There's nothing more to it?"

He leaned against the door, crossing his arms against his chest. For some reason he found himself having to gulp before speaking. "You got something to say, Cam?"

She looked in the car, at Aaron. "I don't know. Not yet."

"You wouldn't go back for another soldier if there was a chance you could get him back?"

Their eyes met again. "No. There's a Denny's nearby."

He had to smile. He just couldn't get used to her, ever. Maybe one of these days he'd stop with the faux interest in what she thought, what she did and just... stop caring.

She was his ever constant puzzle, though. He never liked to leave a puzzle unfinished.

He turned, frowning and unlocking his door. Except that one time when he was five and he couldn't solve that rubix cube mom gave him-

Aaron lunged against the door and slammed it into John, throwing them both against the asphalt street with a dull _thump._ John landed on his butt and grunted. _Oh shit!_ He blinked rapidly and looked up. Aaron crawled over and they stared at each other for a quick second.

"Cam..." John half-whimpered. Aaron visibly debated whether or not to attack again before coming to a conclusion: get the fuck out of dodge. He scrambled to his feet, missteping awkwardly before sprinting in earnest towards the line of warehouses just across the road.

"HELP!" he screamed. "I'M BEING ABDUCTED!"

Cameron threw open the door and went after him, barely glancing at John as she flew past.

"Motherfuck-" he muttered, his ass smarting. He almost wanted to let Cameron handle it: she was already long gone, her legs moving like pistons, already rapidly closing the distance between her and Aaron. Just by looking at the scene John knew he wasn't gonna get away.

He felt oddly sorry for him. Even so, John got up himself and started to give chase.

Aaron ran out into the darkened street and stood there for a second, looking around for a quick exit. He didn't have to wait long, either: a car came hurtling down the road, headlights stabbing through the darkness to light up the street. Out here you rarely saw cops, so most people ignored the speed limit-

"HEY!" Aaron said. He managed to wave his arms a few times before Cameron bore down on him. John ran over to the sidewalk and froze, thinking she'd gotten him.

Not so. "Get the fuck off me!" He shoved the Terminator back before she could raise her arms to catch him: he may as well have tried to push back a train, going flying against the sidewalk hard enough to knock the wind out of him. He let out a pained moan and curled up on his side. It hardly mattered: he still managed to push Cameron back into the street.

The car hurtled forward, either unmindful or uncaring of the scuffle. John forced down a gasp; "_Cam, there's-"_

It plowed straight into her, sending her careering down the road with a loud _crump._ The car skidded to a halt, finally putting two and two together. It paused a few seconds, like a confused animal before the engine roared with full furor, and it drove off even faster than when it'd first arrived, tires squealing.

John ran across the street, glancing over at Cameron's body, trying to tame the growing panic. Shit. Shit. She'd been hit by cars before, right? Probably not that bad. Right? Okay. Focus. He put her --temporarily-- out of his mind and went back after Aaron.

Aaron wasn't going anywhere, though. He crouched there on all fours, coughing and heaving. He didn't seem to have an ounce of energy left in him, which made John's job a helluva lot easier. He took a running leap and slammed himself against Aaron with his shoulder, crumpling him again with a loud groan.

"What the HELL?!" John grabbed the guy by the collar and dragged him up. "What the _FUCK was that?"_

"Just let me go..." Aaron said mutely. His eyes shone unexpectedly, like he was doing his level best not to cry.

"We're not done with you." John sighed, letting the guy back down to the cement. Gently. "Look..."

"No, _you look." _He stifled a cough with his hand and sat upwards, staring daggers up at John. "I don't know what you two want, but... but I have _nothing_ to do with it, okay? I... I just want to get outta here, alright? I..." He looked past John, presumably at Cameron. John blinked and glanced back just in time to watch her tilt her head up from the asphalt. Oh,_ Christ,_ thank god.

He turned back to Aaron.

"I can't _stand_ the sight of her... I go to _pieces,_ Connor." He grabbed a fistful of John's shirt and dragged him down another foot. "Connor... I-I mean, _John, _don't make me work with her. You can't ask me to do that. _Please."_

"She didn't kill him."

Aaron slugged him in the face, sending John crashing back to the pavement. "Did you LISTEN to a word I SAID?!"

"You're the one who's not fucking listening!" John got back up, ignoring the pain in his jaw. "_She_ didn't kill him. She didn't kill Mike."

"How the hell would you know?! I SAW her do it!"

John forced himself to smile --he hoped to god it looked as patronizing as he could make it,-- raising two fingers and ticking them off. "_One,_ she's from a different time than you. She's not the same one. _Two,_ Michael Oxferod has been _here_ for two years now."

Aaron tried to kick him. John grunted and pivoted out of the way. Christ, but this guy was sensitive. He decided he'd leave out the part where _this_ Cameron apparently shot _him._ "You expect me to just buy that?! If I had a gun I'd blow your head off, Connor. To hell with you and, and the fucking resistance, I'd kill you!"

"He's not from your time, but... y'know, it's him!"

"I never even _described_ the guy, goddamnit." He was screaming now.

"Brown hair? Gray eyes?" He struggled for a second to think of something else. "Uh, he's got an ear ring on his left ear? Really needy?" He felt like adding _unnatural imperviousness to bullets _but he was out of breath and that would be in _really_ bad taste. He didn't want to get kicked again.

Not that he had to worry.

Aaron froze, blinking suddenly as if someone had shone a bright light at him. His eyes went to a far-off place and when they refocused he stared right at John, unable to speak.

The only other sound came a few seconds later when Cameron strode up and hauled them both off the ground. She dropped John neatly on the sidewalk and kept her grip tight on Aaron, dangling him comically in mid-air and saying, "Would you like to go someplace to eat?"

---------------

"Here we are, dear... hm... fifty two dollars, please."

Sarah grumbled and went into her wallet, searching between the forged birth certificates, forged IDs, fence recommendations, and that old parent teacher conference note (thank god she'd dodged that) for money. If she just had one of the trucks this wouldn't be as expensive... Not that it mattered, of course, with a near inexhaustible supply of diamonds to work on as collateral. Sometimes indiscriminate crime had its perks.

It raged against her sensibilities, though. She liked frugal, she liked austerity. Having money suddenly meant a newer, bigger house after the old one blew up. After years of living off odd jobs and the charity of others, this just didn't feel right. So she grumbled about the fifty two bucks; why not? Equalized the whole karma issue.

The cab driver, a gypsy woman with some kind of head band and emerald green eyes, glanced back at her, smiling enigmatically. She was the sort that bade farewell to passengers with eastern European anecdotes and mystified with her "exotic" accent. Sarah was only too happy to be getting out of...

She gave the driveway a double-take and frowned. Neither of the trucks were there. Christ almighty, they were _still_ out?

What a way to reward the mom. They called her crazy behind her own damn back and now they left her alone in the house while John fawned after his girlfriend and Derek... acted like Derek. _Stay here, like I said?_ Oh, of course not.

She had some skulls to bash in.

"Here." Sarah peeled off a Grant and two singles and handed it to the cabbie. "Thanks."

The woman grimaced at the money. "No tip? In Romania we have a saying-"

Sarah opened the door and climbed out. "Save it." She slammed it behind her.

As some final form of revenge, the cabbie blasted her horn twice, making Sarah cringe as she walked up the path. She didn't give the bitch the benefit of jumping. The car sat there for a minute like a big, glowering yellow frog before gliding off down the road.

Sarah allowed herself a self-satisfied grin. Being a bitch could be so imminently worth it, sometimes. The lady's driving almost got them killed twice anyway. Glaring at a brick that hadn't been on the patio when she left yesterday, she drew out her keys and opened the front door, taking a whiff of the house's interior and pausing. She glanced left to right through the darkened rooms.

... Everything _seemed_ to be fine.

"John?"

"Derek?"

"Cameron?"

She inhaled sharply after uttering each name, tensing herself to run. When no sounds came back to greet her, --or gunshots-- she finally let herself to relax, planting the keys on the nearby end table and shrugging off her jacket. Alright. So the "kids" were out. So was Derek. Precisely not what she'd asked them, but okay. Fair enough. Derek was an adult, John had a social life, and Cameron, a hyper-alloy combat chassis'd killing machine. Sure. They'd be fine.

She went through the house, not bothering to flick on any lights, and stopped in front of her room. The door stood wide open and some things on her desk had been rifled through. She could tell at just a glance. Probably Cameron. Derek wasn't a bad guess either. They both thought she was batshit insane by now anyway, so all bets were off as to how they'd treat her. Christ, she felt like was starting to believe them, almost.

A full day's worth of searching and she just learned a whole lot about lights in the sky, military projects, and three. Fucking. Dots. She felt like drawing them all over the goddamned house with a red sharpie marker.

The most tangible thing she'd gotten out of the whole thing was an invitation to a UFO convention. Soul searching, conspiracy-mongering crackpots all looking for vindication to account for their crazy experiences. The irony was that Sarah would probably fit right in.

Well, now she could go to her zen place and reflect. And stew. Or she could jaw off with her son or Derek over the phone, complain at them a little bit. Spread the joy. Either or. One of those would _probably_ be more productive, albeit frustrating than the other, but at this point she really didn't care. She grabbed the house phone off a nearby counter and dialed Derek's number.

It took scant seconds for her brother-in-law to pick up with a venomous "Who is it?" Something large hit the floor just a few seconds later into the call. Sarah frowned.

"Check the caller ID next time; it helps."

"Oh. Uh. Hey Sarah. Are you at..." a pause, and Sarah smirked. "So you're at home?"

"Just got here. Couldn't help noticing that the place was empty, funny thing about that."

"Yeaaah, uh, something came up."

He sounded nervous. Nervous as hell, more likely. He tried his damndest to conceal it but it showed up in the way he carefully chose his words, almost like he wanted to chew on them a bit before spitting them out. Never a dull moment around here, nope.

Although, really, she was all too happy to jump on something productive to do with her day. Sometimes dismantling killer robots piece by piece could prove... cathartic.

"Is John with you?"

"No- Wait." He grunted, suddenly. Was he running somewhere? "He's out of the house?"

"You really screwed up this time. But I'm about to call him, so maybe it won't be _so_ bad."

"Sorry. Can I get back to you later?"

She glared at the phone, for all the world as if he could see her do it. "What are you doing?"

"In all honesty, Sarah? None of your fucking business."

"Okay then."

"See- wait, what?"

"I said okay. It's fine. I shouldn't get involved if you don't want me to."

"Are you kidding?"

"Yes. What the hell aren't you telling me?"

Derek choked down a couple of chuckles before answering, but when he did his tone was deadly serious. "It really isn't your business, Sarah. I can tell you it isn't important."

"You're lying."

"And?"

"I think I know what it is."

"You do?"

"Yeah. You've found a girlfriend."

Silence. Sarah let herself sigh in self-satisfaction, like a whimsical grandmother. She probably should have minded a lot more than she did, but so far Derek's daily excursions weren't causing too many problems. Yet. He knew what would happen if they did: his new squeeze would get the same treatment Riley was getting.

Not that Derek would be so foolish as to introduce her to the family. More likely he'd keep her hidden, like a dirty little secret. That assurance in Sarah's mind made her all the most suspicious.

"I really didn't hide it all that well, did I?" Derek eventually said, his voice deflated. It was odd, though. She could tell he was lying, and yet his tone was unmistakably genuine. What the hell...

"I don't care, Derek. Just don't let her blind you to what's important."

"Of course. Hey, can I go?"

Her suspicion blew away all over again. "She there?"

"Yeah."

"Oh, well, don't let me keep you two. Heh."

"Fuck you, Sarah."

"You're already fucking someone." She hung up, feeling a tad jaded and not really knowing why. Bah.

Well. That's one mystery out of the way. She had a feeling the next one would be much harder. Teenaged boys had a knack for making things difficult that way.

---------

Derek frowned and dropped the cell phone back into his pocket. He turned, gave another once-over at the construction site, scratching his chin meditatively.

After a moment's observation he scoffed and turned to the dead woman beside him, still sitting on her chair, a sniper rifle discarded at her feet. Her throat was slit wide open.

"You're actually not my type, no offense."

Not getting any immediate answer, he frowned and grabbed the rifle, holding it out in his hands and examining it closely.

---------

Aaron glanced through the window panes of the Denny's, at the packed tables and constantly moving waitresses. Sensing that he'd stopped, John and Cameron turned fluidly and watched him, not ten feet from the front door. The restaurant lights did only so much to illuminate the parking lot, rendering half of Aaron as black as the night surrounding them.

_Not again,_ John thought with more than a little trepidation.

"Seriously?" Aaron said finally.

"They serve breakfast twenty four-seven, of course I'm serious."

The older boy glared. He spoke as though explaining the ABCs to a child; "It's a public place, idiot, and I'm currently your prisoner. You do the math."

John shrugged. "If you try anything she can just break your neck."

Aaron choked and shut up. Cameron pulled the doors open and some popular tune spilled out that John couldn't quite place. He muttered a quick and useless "thanks" to Cameron as she held the door open and he walked on in with Aaron close behind. The former resistance fighter seemed to pause, as though intimidated all of a sudden.

He couldn't linger very long, though: Cameron pushed him on ahead with a slight brush of her hand: it electrified him, making him scamper down the aisle and jumping into a nearby booth. The waitress who'd come over to seat them frowned good-naturedly, glancing at John and Cameron. "Hungry, huh?"

"I guess. Three, please."

"I'll put you with your friend." She found that unbearably funny and laughed the whole way down, settling them into their seats. John waved Aaron to the side of the booth and sat down next to him, with Cameron perching herself on the other side. Her head swept methodically around the restaurant, targeting and probably categorizing every patron.

Aaron watched her for a moment before sighing. "Why the hell do you put up with her?"

"What?" John blinked. His eyes darted at Cameron like a mother watching an errant child. But she looked fine. Normal, even. Well, as normal as she could manage.

"Nothing. Forget it." He laid back against his seat and stared dismally up at the ceiling. "I'm having a little trouble taking this all in."

John had explained the rough "mechanics" of time travel to Aaron in the truck (although he needed some occasional help from Cameron,) and how it applied to the current situation: Aaron came from a timeline that wasn't Cameron's. Cameron also came from a different timeline than Mike's, because the years didn't add up. Going off the very limited amount of things Mike had told him, John was guessing Aaron had been killed sometime in 2025, right before Mike was accidentally transmitted back in time.

In laymen's terms, Aaron's hatred for Cameron was essentially just a huge misunderstanding... not that it mattered. A minute twitch of her intelligence, some last minute decision had made her shoot _her_ Aaron instead of _her_ Mike. The intention had been exactly the same, and in Aaron's version of things it didn't make a difference.

John found himself oddly wondering why she hadn't recognized _their_ Mike before this moment. He was guessing she hadn't at least been lying about her memory removal. But why was it suddenly coming back to her...?

Whole thing made his head hurt.

"What, exactly?"

Aaron looked over at John, suddenly weary, resigned. Just like every soldier John had ever seen. "I don't understand why this changes anything. She's exactly the same. Why shouldn't I hate her?"

"It's petty, that's why." John regretted that right out of the gate, but it was the first thing that came to mind.

Aaron giggled manically. "You really don't get it, do you?" He nodded at Cameron, who stared at him. "The reason I came here was to help _kill_ things like her. It's like teaching a shark not to hunt for food, you can't program the killer instinct out of them. Eventually at some point they'll all snap, all break. And then you just have a hungry shark on your hands."

"Yeah, well, she hasn't been a problem yet," John lied. He quickly glanced at Cameron, and their eyes met. He looked back at Aaron. "So forget about revenge, okay? It's not gonna happen."

"Is that why you've been hauling me around, to get us to make nice?"

"Surprisingly, no. We need you. Take a wild guess."

Aaron started fiddling with a nearby napkin dispenser, drawing them out one at a time and ripping them in half. He did it almost unconsciously, with a sort of passive aggressive anger lying underneath each pull. "You don't like the people I came with. Not even slightly is my bet."

"Heavily armed, fond of cartoon masks?"

"Stupid dress policy," Aaron muttered. "Yeah, that's them."

John leaned across the table. "Where are they?"

"No. Don't look so shocked: you'll just let the Terminatrix here dispose of them all like garbage if I told you. Sorry." He took a deep breath. "I guess you'll have to kill me." And then a brief pause. "I'd like to see Mike, first, though."

_Perfect. _"You can't."

"Figured. Why?"

"He's their hostage right now."

Aaron froze up altogether, staring fixedly at the table. Suddenly he glanced at Cameron like it was her fault before looking back at John, his eyes wide as plates. "E-excuse me?"

John opened his mouth to answer --and gladly, too-- when the waitress returned, beaming perkily. He got the impression she always looked like this. "Hi guys, I'm Wendy and I'll be your waitress for tonight." She scooped a pencil from the top of her ear and readied it over a notepad, looking at them.

"Not now," Aaron said at once. Wendy frowned.

John glared daggers at the other kid and tried to find his voice, clearing his throat. "Uh, french toast, please. Nothing else."

"I'm not hungry," said Cameron.

"Coffee," Aaron said, not taking his eyes off John.

"What kind?"

He blinked and glanced at her. "Wha'?"

Wendy stiffened up like her body was giving out a collective sigh. "How do you take it, sweetie?"

"Just coffee."

"Okay then, french toast and coffee, sure you don't want anything to drink?"

John said no.

"Should be ready in ten minutes or so, I'll take your menus..."

Off she went, still looking more wood than person. John turned back to Aaron, gulping.

"What do you mean, he's their hostage?" Aaron hissed.

"We were looking for you at this, uh... strip club."

Aaron blinked, recognition dawning. "Oh. _Oh_."

"Vesuvius?"

"Right. Yeah." His face grew red.

John couldn't resist prying just a tad more, feeling more voyeur than interrogator now; "You, uh, had this thing going with the cook?"

Aaron put his hands on his forehead as if he had a headache. "Okay, okay, strip club, sure. Go on."

"Well, Mike-"

Cameron spoke up. "I have to go to the ladies' room."

"-checked with the cook- huh?" John and Aaron looked at her.

"I'll be back in a minute," she said, getting up. Neither of them said a word as she walked away, booted feet stomping on the floor.

Aaron glared at nothing in particular. He was pretty good at that. "Can't have any fucking privacy here."

John went on like nothing happened; "We were looking for you, and the cook seemed to... well, know."

"Shouldn't have brought him to my place."

He had to smile at that. "Did you show him your guns?"

"Several times, actually."

John rolled his eyes, not able to kill a giggle before it escaped. "Way too much info there, man."

"I knew what you meant." He winked but sobered quickly, looking around the restaurant again. "Then what?"

"Well, those _guys_ came. What're they called, anyway?"

"118th Tech-Com division, mostly. We got sick of your treatment of metal and decided to do something about it."

"My... treatment?"

"Reprograming them and letting them run around the bases like pet dogs, for chrissake. I know it's not _your_ fault, exactly, but if you don't shape up it will be." He sighed. "It's mostly me, Colonel Brooks and a few other guys. There was a lot of fighting between us when Brooks announced our actual intentions, so that... thinned out our numbers a bit. It was a little after... y'know, Mike died. After we went across we made a few calls with a bunch of people the resistance already has in the government and we're like a mercenary group, like Blackwater, or whatever it is."

"We have people in the government?" Whoa. He was really a magnificent bastard in the future, wasn't he?

Aaron nodded. "Yeah. But I don't get it, I mean... Brooks knew what Mike looked like. If you're telling me the truth he would have let him go by now, the guy isn't _petty._"

"Not if he was working with us," John shot back. "And he is."

"He wouldn't do that. Mike wouldn't traipse around with fucking metal, no offense, I mean..." He had to struggle with the next few words, almost like he didn't want to seem... out of line. "I really can't believe you're using that thing, it's dangerous. They're all _sick_ in the head."

"She's not." He said it automatically, like a button had been pressed in his mind to make him say it. To say it without really comprehending what he was saying. "And I'm sorry to say, Aaron, but you don't really know Mike like I do."

"It's really amazing, Connor, you just _keep_ giving me excuses to want to smash your goddamn pretty face in." Aaron scooted forward, leaning in so he was close to John. At first he thought, crazily, that the guy was about to kiss him or something, but instead he just shook his head. "To be honest, John, if what you're saying is true then I have _no_ reason to want to help you, or Mike. Cause the one I knew is dead, and I wouldn't want to help a metal lover."

"He's not," John said laconically. _Definitely not. _

"Are _you?_"

"No." He said it with a bit more hesitance.

... Which Aaron picked up on. "I don't believe you. I think you like having her around."

"Can we stay on subject, please?"

"What subject? I've no reason to help you. You might as well just kill me."

"If you think _she's_ not different from the Terminator that killed Mike then by that logic _our_ Mike isn't different from yours. How about that, huh?" Before Aaron could respond he kept right on it, not stopping. "You can't change people by going across time, they're still the same person. You can't change someone's personality."

They stared at each other for a moment. John suddenly realized that they'd been shouting, because some of the people from nearby tables were glancing over, most of them frowning out of the corners of their mouths. He licked his lips nervously, wondering how much they'd heard.

Aaron visibly deflated, sitting back. He got that sad, resigned expression on his face all over again. "I need to think about it... This is all too much. Fuck, how would we even do it?"

John brightened. Ah, finally. Something he understood. "Well, we've got your gun storage, so that's our provisions. And I had an idea..."

"Mm?" He suddenly seemed interested, if only in a professional sort of way.

"You've been keeping an eye on that gang, right?"

"Yeah. Fucking idiots. I can't believe anyone's afraid of those guys... But y'know what I think? I think that Terminator who's running them isn't even a Terminator. I mean, it's brilliant, it's got a ton of tactical knowledge and it can shoot well enough, but... it doesn't talk right, it doesn't _think_ like one of them, and it's not as ruthless as it should be."

"Different model?" John frowned, confused. What the hell did this mean, _not one of them? _ What other explanation was there?

"No. If anything I'd say it's inferior quality, but it's got the build of an 800. If I had to guess, I'd say it's a cheap knockoff from a corporation."

"Why the hell would anyone want to do that?"

He shrugged. "Got me. But go on."

"Well, you can make a few calls and get the mercs to attack the gang. Distract half of them so our job is easier."

Aaron mulled over that for a moment, chewing on it. After a few second's consideration he nodded, as though granting a concession. "Yeah, I guess that'd work. Brooks wants them all dead anyway. If I said they're weak he'd probably send out a group to take them out. Hell, he'd probably send Wallace, too... But... I don't understand _why. _Why do you want to get him back so much?"

"You mean Mike. Well, why don't you?"

"I don't know him."

John glared. "Yes you do."

"Fine. Whatever. What about you?"

"He's my friend."

Aaron smirked condescendingly. "C'mon. It's not more than that?"

"Don't go there. Seriously."

"He was kinda clingy when I was with him, John. Maybe he was for you, eh?"

"You have no idea."

"Knew it."

John looked away. "_It_ wasn't mutual."

"Yeah?"

He didn't say anything. He had the feeling of one being closed in on from all sides, by something invisible and something he couldn't understand, much less perceive. It was a weird, existential sort of feeling, as though he was on the brink of some greater understanding but couldn't put two and two together. Jesus Christ, he was hungry. Where'd the waitress go? Hell, where did _Cameron_ go?

Yeah. For every time Mike tried to get closer, more intimate, John would always have a quick and easy rebuttal. Kid just wouldn't take the hint. So why, when the guy himself was gone, did he suddenly start to soften towards that idea? God knew he was surrounded by people who didn't actually like him. Riley used him, Cameron had some weird, pseudo appreciation of him that would never be called "love," which left...

No, there were plenty of other fish in the sea. He didn't even...

He grew conscious of being stared at and frowned at Aaron. "What?"

"You're quiet."

"I dunno," John mumbled.

"You don't what know what?"

"I don't know."

He felt Aaron's eyes on him for a little longer before they turned away, as though reluctant, longing. "Fine."

"What?"

"I'll help you guys spring him."

John cleared the lump from his throat. "_What?_"

"Don't make me think about it too hard," Aaron said tersely, "or I might just change my mind."

He offered his hand. John eyeballed it, not liking any of this all of a sudden, but he shook anyway. There really stood no point in protracting this any longer, especially when an agreement had been met. He got the feeling he was missing something, though... but, oh, here came Wendy and the food.

He put it out of his mind for now.


End file.
